


Northbound

by The_Queen_In_The_North



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Violence, Childbirth, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Masturbation, Menstrual Sex, Minor Character Death, Non-con kiss, Porn With Plot, Pregnancy, Prophecy, Romance, Sansa is 16 (legal age in Westeros) at the start, Shameless Smut, Suspense, temporary major character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:21:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 118,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26556514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Queen_In_The_North/pseuds/The_Queen_In_The_North
Summary: Three years after the Battle of Blackwater Bay, Sansa Stark and Sandor Clegane reunite and travel north with the remaining two members of the brotherhood without banners. Along the way, external and internal conflicts alike push certain truths to be revealed, no matter the consequences. A lot can happen between the Riverlands and Winterfell, and there's plenty of time for a romance to blossom.*AU - Canon Divergence*Alternating POV chapters between Sandor and Sansa
Relationships: Arya Stark & Sansa Stark, Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Sandor Clegane & Arya Stark, Sandor Clegane & Beric Dondarrion & Thoros of Myr, Sandor Clegane & Jon Snow, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 597
Kudos: 558





	1. Sandor I

“There she is, Clegane — Sansa Stark.”

It had been three years since he saw her last. Three years in isolation from the rest of the world, unaware of the war and politics that destroyed Westeros a little more each day. When he left her in the Red Keep, she had been a maiden. Now, she was a woman grown. 

Since he saw her last, she had been married to the Imp, married to another, a Ser and Lord Harrold Hardyng who had only recently been killed, and, as Thoros and Beric had explained, nearly wedded the conniving pervert, Petyr Baelish. That is, until she stabbed him and ran away — _she_ did, Sansa Stark. They had seen it in the flames, but Sandor couldn’t believe it. _The little bird, a killer? Not in this lifetime. Not even in the next. It had to be the other one, that bloody sister of hers._

He remained skeptical about those so-called visions Thoros of Myr and Beric Dondarrion saw in the flames. However, that all changed once he gawked at the woman approaching on the horizon. Days ago, Thoros had seen her coming in one of his visions, and just so, they traveled to the same spot, roughly a league east from the Kingsroad in the Riverlands, a tranquil snow drifting all around. Thoros had seen her there in the flames, and late that afternoon, there she was, ahorse, alone, _and beautiful,_ Sandor Clegane thought, _so fucking beautiful._

Awestruck, Sandor exhaled sharply inside the hood of his woolen cloak. “Seven bloody hells. You were right, you bloody priest. You were fucking right.”

She saw them, too, from afar, too far to recognize them through the falling snow, and turned her horse around.

“I’ll bring her here,” said Beric. “It’ll frighten her if we all approach.” As the red-haired lord urged his chestnut courser forward through the thin blanket of snow, Sandor cursed himself for not offering to ride to her first.

 _Perhaps that’s all for the better,_ he thought. _How will she react when she sees me? Last I saw her, I held a dagger to her throat. I forced her to sing for me. I almost forced her to…_

“Three years now, eh?” Thoros said. “A long time since you were Joffrey’s dog.”

“And still not long enough since I last saw your face,” Sandor rasped, watching Beric disappear into the grove of dead trees where Sansa had entered. _How did she make it this far on her own?_ he wondered. _It’s a few days' ride from the Eyrie...it’s a bloody miracle we found her before someone else did._ The thought of her traveling alone made him shudder the same way fire did. 

“The Lord of Light brought us together again for a reason, Clegane.”

 _That’s what the Elder Brother told me on the Quiet Isle_ — _not the will of some flaming lord Thoros and Beric worship, but the will of the seven. He allowed me to leave after years of repenting and digging graves in silence. You are to serve a greater purpose_ **_,_ ** _he said to me, and left it at that. Could that greater purpose be her?_

Thoros pulled a wineskin from his saddle bag and took a swig. “Here they come,” he said, watching as Beric rode beside Sansa towards them. Even far away and cloaked, Sandor was able to catch a glimpse of her auburn hair spilling from the hood, blowing attractively in the wintry breeze. Each time her horse’s hoof fell onto the snowy landscape, bringing her one step closer, the more beautiful she appeared. He never wanted to look away.

“A comely pair, aren’t they?” Thoros chimed in.

He never wanted to look away, but he did after hearing the priest’s words and slapped the wine skin from his hand. The wine saturated the fresh snow like a bleeding wound. “Are you a madman?!”

The red priest looked at the wine skin and then at him, cackling. “Lady Sansa _is_ a widow, and Beric _is_ a lord…”

“Beric’s a dead man, six times over.” _And a seventh if he so much as thinks about Sansa._

“Oh, come now, Clegane. It was naught but a jape. But your reaction has been duly noted.” Thoros grinned and hopped down from his horse, picking up the wine skin to take another drink. He stood there with one elbow propped up on his horse’s saddle, looking ahead as the two grew nearer. “A welcome sight, she is. It’s been a long while since I’ve seen a woman. And even when I have, none have looked like her.”

That time Sandor knocked the wine skin out of his hand with his foot. “You old bloody pervert,” he rasped, though Sandor would be a liar if he said he hadn’t been thinking the same thing. “Missing the olden days when you used to whore around with Robert?”

“Let’s not stand on ceremony, Clegane,” Thoros said, retrieving his wine. He made to take a swig but frowned when none came out, the last of it painting the snow a deep scarlet. “We all miss a woman’s touch.”

Sandor didn’t bother to respond, suddenly too preoccupied with wondering what Sansa might say to him after so many turns of the moon apart, after what happened that last night he saw her. The air grew thicker as she approached. He kept his head downcast, feeling like a green boy on the eve of battle, as if he were about to face something thrilling and terrifying all at once. The cloak he wore was heavy, the hood heavier still, keeping the majority of his face hidden. _Will she know it’s me before she sees my face? Did Beric tell her that I was here?_ His time to ponder was over; Sansa Stark was before him.

“Lady Sansa,” he heard Thoros say. Sandor lifted up his head an inch and watched the red priest reach out for her hand on the back of his horse and place it on his lips.

“Hello, Thoros.” The voice was familiar yet foregn, soft yet assertive, girlish yet mature. _And beautiful, above all else._ “I still remember the day you won the melee in the tourney held for my father,” she said kindly, “ _and_ when you unhorsed Lord Beric in the joust.”

Thoros hooted with laughter. “You hear that, my lord? She remembers when I unhorsed you!”

“You were much bigger back then,” the lightning lord dismissed. “And my lady, you remember Sandor Clegane.”

He looked up at her then, and for the first time in three years, he set eyes upon her face.

 _Seven fucking hells,_ Sandor thought, astonished. _There’s never been anything more beautiful._

Sansa had been pretty as a girl, far too pretty, in fact. Petyr Baelish had not been the only one fond of her looks when she was still considered a child. It was a battle Sandor had fought every day in the Red Keep, praying to whichever false gods might hear him that his twisted infatuation for her would go away. When praying didn’t work, he drank. When drinking didn’t work, he fucked. And when that didn’t work, he laid in his bed and succumbed to the thoughts of her, crude and deviant as they were.

 _A woman grown._ Beautiful in every sense of the word. Mostly everything about her was the same, her high cheekbones, her soft rosebud lips that were slightly parted just then, her long auburn hair that spilled over her shoulders, skin the color of milk, and those Tully blue eyes that any man who was not blind could easily drown in. She was a bit taller, he noticed, and even sitting atop her horse wearing a cloak, Sandor could tell her figure was more womanly than it had been three years past. He could sit there and admire her until the day he died and it still wouldn’t be long enough.

Those two vivid blue eyes, even bluer in the grey and white landscape surrounding them, looked at him uncomprehending, until she inhaled deeply and turned away, never uttering a word. _And there’s my answer,_ he thought dismally, _the little bird hates me._

And off they rode, bound north. Sansa rode in front of him beside Beric, the breeze blowing her pretty scent into his nostrils. She smelled like lavender and roses and lemons — everything good in the world. Absolutely nothing like that wild little sister of hers he had traveled with years ago. Along the way, Thoros served him a few mocking smirks, to which Sandor would pull on Stranger’s reins and attempt to knock him off his horse. 

Sansa rode in silence, and as graceful as she was atop her horse, there was tenseness to her that troubled him. _Is it because of me?_ he wondered before realizing how presumptuous that was. _If what Thoros says is true, she only recently stabbed a man. And before that, she lost her husband. Who knows what else the little bird has seen._

The overcast, along with the onset of winter, gave them less hours to travel while it was still light. Soon enough, the sun would be setting, and shelter was few and far in between. When they caught the rare sight of a peasant house in the distance, Beric immediately gestured for them to veer off in that direction.

The place was a ruin. Earth once scorched by fire slowly being covered by a mantle of snow, stones crumbled apart and scattered all around. And there were a couple of corpses, too, unburied and rotting, but Sansa didn’t even flinch. _Of course she wouldn’t,_ Sandor thought, _she’s seen far worse in the Red Keep. Her own father’s head on a spike being one._ Upon the sight, Beric tugged on his horse’s reins to a halt and dismounted, unsheathing his sword. 

“You two wait here with the lady. There may be outlaws.”

“ _Outlaws_?” Sandor bellowed. “You’re an outlaw!” He was growing tired of Beric’s displays of chivalry but decided to stay mounted on his stallion in the event there were indeed outlaws. _Perhaps I’ll find myself lucky and an archer will place a quarrel in both of their heads. Then I’ll be able to take Sansa home by myself, just like I should have done three years ago._

Beric disappeared into the house, minutes passing without a single sign of him. Just when Sandor got his hopes up, the lord returned and gave them the all-clear. Sandor released a groan of displeasure. The three drew forward closer and dismounted their horses. The wind was picking up, and soon there would be yet another mild winter storm. As strong as they were becoming in the Riverlands, Sandor could scarcely imagine what awaited them in the North.

“In a month, my lady, you’ll be back home in Winterfell,” Beric began, helping Sansa dismount her horse. Sandor’s teeth grinded as he watched the lord place his hands on her waist. Had they stayed there a second longer than necessary, Sandor might have ripped his sword from its scabbard. “Perhaps less than a month should the weather favor us.”

“Are you blind in that one eye of yours, Dondarrion, or did the Others take your wits?” Sandor interrupted. “The weather is not like to favor us, not for one bloody day.” 

“Careful, Clegane.”

“How long have you been traveling north, my lord?” she asked swiftly. 

As Sandor tied Stranger out beside the house, he watched Sansa lift open her saddle bag before quickly closing it shut, looking over her shoulder at the two men beside her, and then at him, chewing on her plump bottom lip. 

_The little bird is hiding something._ That intrigued him. Everything about her intrigued him.

“Thoros and I have been traveling for a fortnight now. We chanced upon Clegane a few days ago.”

She didn’t respond to that and quietly untied another bag from the saddle to carry inside. 

“Hand that here, my lady,” Beric said, relieving her of the burden. 

Sansa gave him a cordial smile. “Thank you, my lord.”

 _More chivalry_ — _FUCK._

The peasant house was gloomy and cold, the only light provided by the little of the setting sun that bled through the thickening clouds and spilled into the open windows, many of which no longer had shutters. In the middle of the house was a fire pit, to which Thoros had been drawn to, lighting it aflame the moment he sat down. There was a second room adjacent to where he stood, smaller and duskier than the first, and Sansa walked right around him to enter it without so much as a glance. 

_She doesn’t just hate me,_ he thought, _she fucking loathes me._ Even so, Sandor placed his longsword and bedroll down inside the nook behind him. It was a queer sort of addition for a peasant house, underneath a shutterless window that let in a flakes of snow, but it was just beside the room Sansa had chosen. He decided he’d sit there that night much like he used to stand guard outside her bedchamber in the Red Keep. _Back when she used to speak to me. Back before the bloody Blackwater._

An hour later, there was progress. 

The provisions he and the Brotherhood had were scarce and old besides. The winter made it harder to find game, and the earth had been scorched and raided so many times in the Riverlands that it was all but impossible to find anything of substance. Sandor was convinced that more men would die traveling to the North by starvation than by wolves or outlaws. Sansa, on the other hand, traveled with plenty of provisions — suspiciously plenty. That intrigued him again. _However she managed to escape Littlefinger’s clutch, she didn’t do so impulsively,_ he thought. _She’s well-prepared. The clever little bird plotted her escape._

As they ate that evening around the fire, Sansa willingly offered them bread that was not hard and cheese that was not moldy. Beric politely declined, but she would hear none of it and gave it to him anyway. Thoros declined, too, but just as quickly held out his hand. When she got to him she didn’t say a word, gently tossing the food into his lap before sitting back down on the other side of the fire. When he glanced down at the bread and cheese Sansa had given him, he noticed that the portions were larger than what she had given to Beric and Thoros. Sandor looked up and caught her looking at him across the flames, her flawless, pale face glowing orange in the burning light, and thought he saw a gleam in her eye.

After a quiet supper, she bidded the men good night, stole one last glance in his direction, and departed into the other room. 

Sandor retired shortly after, sitting in the chilly, shallow, yet somewhat private, nook. His head fell down to his chest as he dozed off listening to Beric and Thoros murmur to one another beside the flames until they finally found sleep. As tired as Sandor was, he was restless still. Every time he closed his eyes he could see her, the rosy color in her cheeks from the cold, the rich, vibrant color of her hair, the curve of her lips when she smiled, even when it was not for him. 

Remembering the details made the peasant home ten times warmer. Sandor’s blood rushed in his veins as if he had just fought in battle, rampant with bloodlust. He hadn’t felt such a desire since that night green fire filled the sky and he had turned his back on the king, turned his back on all he had ever served, and came to her in the middle of it, drunk and savage. _I should have taken her with me,_ he thought for the thousandth time. _I should never have threatened her._ Of all the things he atoned for on the Quiet Isle, that had been the hardest. Repenting for his urges to have her that night, whether she willed it or not, stole many nights’ sleep from him. The more he thought about it, the more he understood why she wouldn’t speak to him. _All the monsters she faced in the capital, and in our last moment together, I became another one of them._

He hated the memory, but a part of him loved it, too. A part of him that would never die, the same part of every man that wouldn’t die until the day he did — the desire, the lust, the craving of flesh. Even drunk and terror-stricken by the alchemists’ flames, Sandor could remember how it felt to have her body underneath his own, how her breath felt against his face, how her hand cupped his cheek… 

The nook was private enough, the men across the room asleep, so Sandor gave in to his enduring brutish desire and let his hand slip underneath the furs covering his legs and inside his trousers. He was already hard, vexingly so, and stroked himself to the thought of her. It wouldn’t be the first time he had done it, nor would it be the last. And just then, the images in his head were clearer than ever upon reuniting with her. 

He first thought of her skin, as pale as the snow drifting inside through the shutterless window, then he thought of her eyes, two brilliant sapphires, yet more beautiful still. He thought of her lips, those soft pink lips, and how they parted just slightly when she saw him. Sandor imagined himself parting those lips with his tongue, how those lips would look parting for his cock and what they’d feel like as they slid up and down. He wondered what cries of pleasure might escape those lips while she lay underneath him, fucking her not like a whore, but like the only woman he could never forget no matter the time or distance. Sandor clenched his jaw to prevent himself from moaning at the thought, but a grunt of satisfaction proceeded to leave him anyway. 

_Fuck._ His eyes opened, and his hand immediately came to a halt. _I’ll never hear the end of Thoros’ japes if he finds me with my cock in my hand._ Sandor sat there motionless for a time, listening for any activity, but only heard the crackling of flames and the squalling of wind. He let his head fall back against the wall and resumed his pace, closing his eyes to return to Sansa Stark, the only way he’d ever have her. He was nearing his climax thinking of how she had touched him that night three years ago. A single innocent touch, yet somehow the memory of it was more titillating than the rest. In that same instant, his balls elevated, his eyes clenched shut, and his seed expelled into his hand. Sandor released sharp breaths in an effort to subdue the profane shouts he’d have sooner vocalized. And for a split second afterwards, he was faced with an overwhelming sense of clarity, and disgust along with it. 

_That poor girl,_ Sandor thought, wiping his wet hand onto the furs in his lap. _She’s been through enough. She doesn’t need me getting myself off to the thought of her on top of it all._ As guilt and lethargy consumed him in the minutes after, he heard feet pattering outside the nook, followed by the sound of a soft-spoken voice. 

“Sandor.” 

He sat there with his eyes closed, wondering if he had fallen asleep and was only dreaming of her. Once he heard another step, his eyes shot open to discover her standing in the entrance, the fire in the room behind her accentuating her womanly silhouette no longer covered by the cloak, her auburn hair glowing like a flame itself. Despite the clouds veiling the night sky, her eyes glittered with the scarce moonlight that trickled into the window. The guilt hit him like an iron fist to the throat, undeserving of casting his eyes upon such beauty, let alone speaking to her.

But Sansa was there, with her arms wrapped around the front of her waist, and no longer was she silent. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

Sandor blinked a few more times to confirm that he wasn’t dreaming before clearing his throat. “You didn’t.” The response was unintentionally curt, and he expected her to leave just as quickly as she approached. Instead, she looked over her shoulder and took a step closer. 

“I wanted to apologize to you,” she said in hushed tones.

The words confounded him. _I should be the one apologizing to her,_ he thought, _for placing a dagger to her throat, for pleasuring myself to the thought of her…again._

“For?” That response came across as rude, too. _Fuck. Now she’ll definitely leave._

But she didn’t. Sansa stood there, unwavering. “For not speaking with you today. I hope you’ll forgive me but...seeing you today was like seeing a ghost. For years, I thought you were dead.” There wasn’t disappointment in the tone of her voice like he anticipated, but something else. If Sandor didn’t know any better, he might even say there was relief.

“You and the rest of Westeros.” He visibly cringed and threw his head back against the wall. _Why is it so bloody hard to speak to her?_

In the shadowy recess, Sandor could not clearly see her expression, but he could hear her gentle sigh. “Well, I’m glad you’re not,” said Sansa and proceeded to turn away.

The sight of her leaving instilled a sense of panic. “Little bird, wait.”

Sansa’s hand lingered on the wooden beam separating the alcove from the main room as she stood there with her back to him, almost frozen. “I haven’t heard that in so long,” she whispered. The hand on the beam abruptly left to cover her mouth. That’s when he realized she didn’t mean to say that aloud. She lowered her hand before turning around, and took not one step forward, but two, to stand fully inside the nook. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry.” The two words fell out. He had a lot to be sorry for and wished for years to have the chance to say it to her. And just then, he could. So he said it again. “I’m sorry, girl.”

Sansa took a half-step forward, and his heart skipped a beat when she sat down with her legs brushing against the furs. Even after traveling, the scent that lingered on her smelled sweet. He couldn’t understand it. 

“Sorry for what?” she asked.

 _Where do I begin? Where do I end?_ “Everything,” Sandor decided to say, knowing that they’d be there until dawn should he list all of the things he said and did to her that were wrong. 

When a gust of wind tore open the window shutters inside the main room, Sansa startled and gripped his arm. The connection was as intoxicating as downing three flagons of Arbor red, and more than that, it was stimulating. Sandor could have spent himself again inside his trousers from the touch alone. The dainty fingers on his forearm all but called out to him, begging for him to take her hand and kiss them just as Thoros had. He would have, too, had he not been terrified of pushing her away again.

Sansa looked at him and then at her hand. “Oh, forgive me.” Her voice quivered when she spoke. She released her grip gradually, as she glanced over her shoulder. 

His arm felt naked without her touch. “Afraid of something?” It was a foolish question, he knew, and a condescending one at that. _Fuck._

“No,” she whispered, “not anymore.”

That made him want to smile. That made him want to cry. _A grown woman she may be, but she’s still too young to have seen what she’s seen. Years ago I tried to warn her, I tried to open her eyes to see how twisted and cruel this world is, but now that she has seen it for herself, I’d do anything to take it back._

“I won’t let anyone hurt you again, little bird.” Sandor had never felt less in control than he did in that moment, thoughtlessly saying things he would have only been able to say if he were belligerently drunk or minutes away from death.

Sansa smiled, not the same way she smiled at Beric and Thoros, not even the same way he used to catch her smiling at the Knight of Flowers years ago in King’s Landing. It was unique, genuine, and pure, but not naive like a girl’s. It was a mature affection solely for him. Or at least he hoped. She reached over and grabbed his hand, the one that had only recently been stroking his cock, and brushed the top of it with her thumb.

“I know,” said Sansa.

Engrossed by her, utterly captivated by the woman she had become, he considered taking that smooth hand and placing it onto his lips, running it along his marred face. And just when he would have done it, frightening her away be damned, footsteps approached. 

“Lady Sansa, is everything all right?” Beric Dondarrion asked.

 _I’ve killed him before, why not kill him again?_ Sandor thought. _A_ _nd Thoros, too, that way he’ll stay dead._

Sansa removed her hand all at once and stood up from the ground. “Yes, my lord. Just a bit restless.” Before she left, Sansa gave him another smile, one that he could only describe as profoundly bewitching. Sandor knew at that moment he would never be able to leave her again. “Good night, Sandor. And you, too, Lord Beric.”

“Sleep well, my lady,” the lightning lord said. After she left, Beric loitered in the nook, shaking his head while crouching down beside him. “Clegane…”

A gust of wind outside stirred harshly, matching his own growing frustrations. “Go on, get on with it.”

His one good eye never left his face, the other hidden underneath a bandage from where his brother, Gregor, had stabbed him with a dirk; that had been Beric’s fourth death. “She’s Sansa Stark.”

“Aye, she is.”

“The Lady of Winterfell,” Beric added, “the Lady of the Eyrie.”

“And you’re a lord, is that it?” he uttered with bitter resentment. “Make your fucking point.”

“Clegane, how long has it been since you’ve had a woman?” 

Sandor knew where the conversation was headed and stifled a chuckle. “Not as long as you, I’d wager.”

Beric did not share his amusement. “Years you were on that island. I safely presume there are no brothels on the Quiet Isle.”

“Brothels,” he scoffed. “You think brothels mean spit to me?”

“You had a reputation in the capital.”

“So did that bloody priest of yours, but I don’t see you scolding him.”

The lord’s lips grew thin and firm. “I trust Thoros. I trust him with my life.”

Sandor snorted. “All seven of them?” 

The scarecrow of a man regarded him warily for a moment before standing from the ground and delivering a weary sigh. “We will return the lady to Winterfell — untouched.” Without another word, Beric exited. Seconds later, Sandor could hear him stirring the fire as he mumbled a prayer to his flaming god and cursed the both of them under his breath.

Restlessness found him again, and the recess felt colder. Part of him wanted to pick up his sword and duel the dead lord chanting to the fire while another wanted to go into Sansa’s room and lay with her, feel her touch, feel those lips that smiled at him press against his own while he held her underneath him and lifted up her dress...

 _Fuck,_ he thought as his blood rushed south. Sandor waited for Beric to grow quiet before traveling his hand back underneath the furs and into his trousers. _This is the only way I’ll ever have her,_ he knew, pleasuring himself again to the thought of Sansa Stark.


	2. Sansa I

_You shouldn’t have watched him last night,_ Sansa scolded herself. _He wouldn’t have called you little bird if he knew you did that. He wouldn’t think you to be so innocent then._

Sansa winced as she wrung out the soaking wet cloth over the fire, the near-scalding water a fitting punishment for having watched Sandor Clegane pleasure himself the night before. _But I didn’t mean to,_ she thought, hoping (and failing) to ease her guilt. _He never heard me that first time I came to speak with him and he was already...and I only meant…_

For her, innocence was a memory — a distant one. Sansa had been stripped of it the moment she became Alayne Stone, Petyr’s bastard daughter, taught and used and manipulated time and time again, and all for his benefit — _his_ , not hers, no matter how often he’d say otherwise. 

_But even so, I learned,_ she thought. _I learned to play his game. I discovered what he meant to do. And before I would have been forced to become his wife, I stabbed him and fled, never looking back._

Innocence was a memory. _I became a charmer, an entrancer, a bewitcher, and then a wife to a man I never loved._ Unlike her marriage to Tyrion Lannister, her marriage to Harrold Hardyng had not gone unconsummated. And Sansa would be a liar if she said the marriage bed had not grown on her.

 _Sandor Clegane only knew you as a maiden,_ she reminded herself. _He only saved you and came to you and kissed you as a maiden. Now that you’re not…_

Myranda Royce had been the first one to tell her how men can lose respect and interest once a girl is no longer a maiden — genuine interest, that is. “They’ll still fuck you,” Randa had said, “but that’s about all they’ll do. Men fuck their whores, but they _love_ their maidens.” 

_Will it be different now?_ she wondered.

It was almost an hour past first light and Sansa knew better than to dawdle around. After breaking their fast, the men left her alone inside the house to freshen up and dress for the day. Sansa dressed down quickly and bathed herself with a warm cloth, releasing little squeals each time the hot water met her skin. When the cloth became too dry, Sansa would dip it back into the pot hanging over the fire and repeat the process — dip, wring, squeal. One of those times her finger brushed against the iron rim and she gasped so loud that Sandor Clegane shouted from outside, “Are you alright, little bird?” to which she responded, “Yes,” even though she wanted to say, “No, I need you to come in here,” and he’d walk in and find her nude and dripping wet.

But that wouldn’t be very innocent. 

_He only ever knew me as innocent._

Sansa dabbed her wrists, the tops of her breasts, the curve of her neck, and the top of her sex with lavender oil. It was absurd considering her current circumstances, to be sure, but it became such a part of her routine that it felt more absurd to not do it all. 

_Besides, the Hound is here. Sandor Clegane never was dead. That was only another one of Petyr’s lies._

She may have wedded Harrold Hardyng, she may have bedded him, too, but her mind always returned to that one night, to that one kiss, harsh lips pressing onto her own, the threat of a dagger at her throat. _He was drunk,_ Sansa knew, _and terrified. It was the fire, the flames, green and all-consuming. I was a fool to be afraid of him_ — _he would have never hurt me. But he did kiss me._

The memory of the kiss was innocent at the start, but the years had changed her. Petyr had taught her how to beguile. Myranda had taught her the intricacies of how to please a man, as well as herself. And Harry had taught her that if she kept her eyes closed and imagined a voice deeper and raspier, she could pretend that she was bedding another, the same man who had kissed her in her bedchamber three years ago.

_The Hound would think me wanton if he knew that. He’d also think me wanton if he knew I pleasured myself last night, too._

The morning was growing old. Sansa quickly dressed in all her layers: small clothes, hose, shift, deep blue woolen dress, black hooded cloak, and boots that took another two minutes to properly lace. By the time she gathered her things and carried it out the door, she expected to find the three men frowning with impatience. Instead, they all smiled at her — even Sandor Clegane. 

_He wouldn’t be smiling if he knew you weren’t so innocent._ Sansa wished that stupid voice inside her head would go away.

“You look radiant, my lady,” said Thoros as he sharpened his blade with a whetstone. 

“Thank you,” she said. “Forgive me for taking so long.”

“Not at all, Lady Sansa. We travel at your leisure,” Beric said kindly. 

The Hound was closest to the entrance and offered to take her bag, tossing it over his shoulder with a loud grunt. “Gods, what do you have in here, girl?”

“Oh,” Sansa stammered, “it’s—”

She felt half a fool when he started to chuckle under his breath, not realizing until then that it had been a jape. 

“Easy, little bird. I could carry your bag _and_ you on my shoulder and walk to Winterfell. You wouldn’t hear me complain, not once.” 

That made Sansa blush. She had almost forgotten that she could blush. Sandor tied the bag for her on the back of her palfrey and proceeded to lift her onto the saddle. His hands were welcome around her waist, the grip firm yet gentle. She only wished that he hadn’t let go quite so fast. 

In the midst of the Hound lifting her onto the horse, her cloak had snagged on the flap to the saddle bag, exposing the white, blood-stained fabric within. Sansa noticed it before he did and quickly closed it shut. He may not have seen what was inside, but he did see her panic. The Hound eyed her for a moment, but he never did question her.

 _Thank you, old gods,_ she silently prayed. _How would I explain to him that I’ve kept his Kingsguard cloak all these years? How would I explain to him what it means to me?_

“After you, Lady Sansa,” Beric called out to her. 

Sansa broke her gaze from Sandor mounting his courser and guided her palfrey towards the Kingsroad. There were corpses just beyond the ruined stone enclosure of the home, but they did not frighten her. They seemed to belong there, rather — an apt representation of the ongoing mayhem in Westeros. Sansa wondered what Petyr Baelish’s corpse looked like right now. The household staff had been small after he sent nearly every able man to Winterfell with Harry to join Jon’s forces in executing the Boltons, but surely someone would have found him by now. _And word of his death will travel, as will word of my sudden absence._

She found it passing strange that neither Lord Beric nor Thoros nor Sandor Clegane had asked about her traveling alone. _Perhaps they know something is amiss._ Either way, the inquiry was an eventuality. Sansa had the parchments she needed to find Petyr guilty of treason, murder, and other heinous crimes in a formal trial, but he hadn’t given her that opportunity. Stabbing him had never been part of the plan, but it happened nevertheless. 

_I’m not innocent at all._

The weather that morning did favor them, despite Sandor’s earlier pessimism. There was a thin overcast, but the gusting wind had abated into a gentle breeze and the snow had yet to fall. The Riverlands were quite beautiful then. A thin sheet of frost coated the earth and ice dripped from the bare branches of the trees as the morning grew warmer. Sansa embraced the distinct sights and sounds of the Riverlands; it felt like she had lived in the Vale for a lifetime. But she wouldn’t ever live there again, Lady of the Eyrie or not. She was finally bound for the North to return home to Winterfell, and with Sandor Clegane, no less.

“You ride well.”

Color rose to her cheeks. Sansa smiled at the Hound who rode beside her. “Oh, thank you.”

“Who taught you? I don’t remember you being very fond of riding in King's Landing.”

“My late husband,” she mumbled.

Sandor fidgeted in his saddle. “Ah. Sorry about that, girl.”

_I’m not._

“He died a brave man from what we hear, my lady,” Beric joined in. “Leading the Knights of the Vale to join your brother’s army of wildlings, destroying the Boltons — quite the feat.”

_Quite the feat, except it was not Ramsay Bolton’s forces that killed him. It was one greedy man, and a lot of Petyr’s gold._

Instead of saying that, knowing it would lead to a conversation she’d rather avoid, she said, “Yes, Harry had been born for gallantry. I suppose a widow can only hope to say that about her late husband.”

“A widow you might be, my lady,” Thoros began, “but not for long, I think.”

“Aye,” Beric agreed. “Intelligent, fair, youthful — you’ll have many noble suitors, Lady Sansa.”

Sandor snorted. But when Sansa glanced over at him, it was not amusement she witnessed on his face. “The girl has only recently become a widow and you’re speaking of noble suitors? The two of you sound as ambitious as bloody Littlefinger.”

Sansa’s head snapped at him, unbelieving of the brazen slight. It had been a long while since Sansa was with company who was not bought and paid for by Petyr Baelish. She had almost forgotten that she was not the only one who despised him.

“Clegane...” Beric cautioned.

The Hound cracked his neck, tilting his head towards each shoulder. “It’s a shame Littlefinger didn’t prove his _gallantry_ in battle.”

Sansa folded her lips in her mouth, suppressing the urge to laugh. _Petyr’s dead, too, but how do I mention that? That wouldn’t be very innocent of me, not innocent at all._ “Harry wanted him to stay with me at the Gates of the Moon during the battle. I had insisted on traveling to Winterfell alongside him, but he would hear none of it.”

“And why’s that?” he asked.

 _A dog can smell a lie._ Years ago he told her that. _Whatever he asks me, I’ll tell him the truth,_ she promised to herself. _Even if he asks how I left._

“He had hoped I’d be with child,” Sansa confessed. 

The Hound’s mouth suddenly became tight, and without uttering another word, he glanced ahead.

 _So much for honesty,_ she thought. _Perhaps he was under the impression that I never consummated my marriage to Harry much like I never consummated my marriage to Tyrion. Sandor Clegane only ever knew me as innocent…._

“Well, my lady,” Thoros began, “it would have been a poor time to be with child. The sound of war outside your window certainly would not have eased your pain in the birthing bed,” he chuckled.

Sansa looked away from the Hound and forced herself to giggle. “Very true.”

The hours passed by like dripping honey, eventual but vexingly slow. Sansa would occasionally glance over at the Hound who was frowning in his saddle and desperately wondered what he was thinking about. 

_Maybe he only cared for me when I was innocent…just like Myranda said._

From time to time, Beric and Thoros would ask her a question or discuss something amongst themselves. The two men were always kind to her, and had been well-liked by her late father. Although Sansa did enjoy their company, she couldn’t help but feel ill-at-ease with the Hound’s abrupt silence. At the mention of her sister, however, that all changed.

“You were with Arya?” Sansa asked, bewildered. “When was this?”

“Two years ago, my lady,” Beric answered, scrutinizing the Hound. “Go on, Clegane.”

Sansa shifted her attention towards him and noticed his frown became a grimace. “I took that bloody sister of yours from the brotherhood,” he admitted, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Meant to ransom her to your brother…got to the Twins the same night of the Red Wedding…thought about taking her to your aunt in the Eyrie, then decided on ransoming her to your uncle in Riverrun. We never made it. The two of us got into a bloody brawl at the Crossroads Inn and my wounds festered. Days later, I was begging her to end the pain, but she fucked off on her horse and that was the last I saw of her.”

The reins fell from her hands. _Arya_ ** _did_** _make it out of King’s Landing,_ Sansa thought. _And she traveled with the Hound, of all people._ _But it has been years since then. Where would she have gone? Where could she be? Unless…_

Sansa shuddered at the thought and picked up the reins. “You said you begged my sister to end the pain. Do you mean—”

“I begged her to poke me with that little sword of hers,” the Hound interrupted. “Told her all sorts of terrible things to get her to do it, too.”

“Like what?”

The Hound’s eyes left the road to regard her, his face as still as stone. “I can’t remember.”

_A lie._

The remainder of the ride was quiet, but somehow the time passed faster as her mind began to wander. She thought of her sister, she thought of Bran and Rickon, she thought of Jon, and she couldn’t help but wonder where the Hound had been the past three years. Something about him was different, but she couldn’t quite figure it out. _I’ll ask him tomorrow,_ she lied to herself.

The wind picked up, as did the snow. An hour before the sun would set in the west, they rode beside an inn not far off the Kingsroad — another rare find. 

“We’ll stop here tonight for the lady,” said Beric, guiding his horse east of the Kingsroad.

“An _inn_?” the Hound scoffed. “Aye, let’s bring the most important woman in the Known World to an inn where Lannister loyalists might be lingering about.”

Sansa blushed at the compliment, if it was meant to be a compliment at all.

“We’d do well not to trust the innkeep nor the travelers,” Beric granted him. “But Lady Sansa deserves what little comfort we can find along the way. We’re not like to be this fortunate every night.”

“In a fortnight when we’re sleeping in three feet of snow, you’ll be glad we stopped here, Clegane,” Thoros added.

“Bugger you, Thoros. You only want to see if they have wine.”

The priest chuckled. “I never said I didn’t.”

The inn was three stories tall and by the looks of it newly built, although it was not the most aesthetic of structures. _No wonder it does not look familiar,_ she thought _. Amidst the war and ruin, someone was clever enough to profit from those traveling about._ An incessant stream of smoke exited the large stone chimney on top. The stables on the northside of the inn were of a modest size with several vacant stalls. A young boy with gaunt features and shock of messy blonde hair ran out from one of the stalls, offering to take their horses. After Beric tipped the boy a copper penny, he led the way towards the entrance of the inn. The Hound quickly fell in beside her with his right hand fixed on the hilt of his sheathed sword. Sansa lowered her hood and prayed a silent prayer to the old gods that he wouldn’t need to take it out.

Sansa could hear bickering and laughter coming from within. As they entered the inn, she discovered the common area was large and drafty with four long tables that could easily sit one hundred people. On the furthest wall was a brazier much too small for the size of the room, and to their right, a stone archway that led into the kitchens. Quickly surveying the room, Sansa counted eight men seated, three just beside the brazier and five beside the kitchens. She noticed a few women, too, which had eased some of her growing anxiety, until she saw one of the men pull a girl into his lap. _They’re whores_ , Sansa realized, her stomach tying in knots . The room grew quieter upon their entrance, and she felt the Hound stepping in closer.

“Look who we’ve got here, lads,” a familiar voice said. Sansa shifted her eyes back towards the man who had yanked the whore down into his lap. He was middle-aged, bald, and had jowls that shook when he started to laugh. Three years it had been since she last saw that man, but Sansa remembered him all the same — him, and his white enameled armor fists. 

The Hound swiftly stepped in front of her. “Boros Blount,” Sandor spat the name like a curse. “Shouldn’t you be in Kings Landing guarding your queen?”

“ _Our_ queen, dog. There was a bounty on your head a couple years back,” Ser Boros slurred. She couldn’t see him with her face pressed against Sandor’s cloak, but his voice clearly indicated that he was drunk. “Then it was said that you died. I wonder if Her Grace would still be willing to pay that debt.”

“Enough,” Beric interjected. “We’re not here to quarrel, nor are we here to fight.”

Sansa heard the Lannister men chuckle. “There was a bounty on your head, too, Dondarrion.”

“Aye, well there’s three of you and there’s three of us. And you’re all drunk. Odds don’t favor you, Blount.”

Sansa peeked over the Hound’s arm, watching the cruel member of the Kingsguard consider that for a moment before shrugging. “Bleed it, we’ve come searching for the Imp, not for you dead sons of bitches.” Boros took a sip from his tankard. “Who’s the girl?”

Sansa immediately pulled back to hide behind the Hound’s build.

“Not yours,” said the Hound. 

“A nicely dressed whore,” another man at the Lannister table commented. 

“I should have guessed as much with Thoros and Clegane,” Boros said, followed by a sickly laugh. “How much for one tumble with your fancy whore, dog?”

“Your severed head.”

Her eyes widened, her heart raced. The fire crackled and hissed in the brazier, its dancing flames the only moving thing inside the common area. Sansa counted to four before she heard the sound of steel sliding against leather, and in unison, every man wearing a weapon had pulled it out.

The innkeep entered from the kitchens just then, a heavy man with a large brow and mean, sloping eyes. “I don’t want no trouble from the lot of you,” he bellowed. “Pay or get the fuck out.”

Beric was the first to sheath his sword and pulled out his coin pouch, tossing the innkeep not a stag, but a golden dragon. 

The man's eyes gleamed at the sight. Once he caught the coin, he bit into it and nodded. “That’ll get you two rooms, ale, mutton, and suckling pig.” He paused for a moment, licking his lips as he studied her. “Three rooms if you share your whore for the night.”

“I don’t share my whore with anyone,” Sandor Clegane said.

Sansa’s mouth dropped open, her face and chest blushing red. Beric glanced over at him askance before taking out another gold coin. “Three rooms, food, and wine — not ale.”

_Three rooms? But there’s four of us._

The innkeep fumbled with the coin after it had been tossed into the air and was forced to pick it up from the ground. He was so round in the belly that she worried he might not be able to bend over to reach it, but somehow he managed. That time he grinned when he bit into it. “Well come on in,” he said, “and the rest of you bastards, put away your fucking swords!”

Beric leaned into her ear. “We’ll get the rooms first, my lady.”

Sansa nodded and kept her head down as she walked in between him and the Hound. The staircase was unusually narrow and steep; only one person could comfortably go up or down at a time. It sounded like there was a scuffle behind her after she started up the steps, and then she heard Sandor curse followed by Thoros beginning to chuckle. Sansa would have looked back to see what happened, but she was eager to exit the piercing stare of Boros Blount (she must needs not look to know that he was watching) and continued. 

Beric walked just behind her and kindly instructed her to go to the third floor. Each step was painful, becoming suddenly aware of how sore her legs were from consecutively long days of riding. After she ascended the staircase and walked into the corridor, she waited for the others to join her before picking out a room. 

Coming from the closed room beside her, Sansa could hear the sounds of a bed creaking accompanied by a man’s grunts and a woman’s moans. Forgetting her highborn, ladylike manners, Sansa held her breath and listened closer.

“Down the corridor, my lady,” Beric said, interrupting her perverted eavesdropping.

_No, I’m not innocent at all._

The Hound ascended the stairs just then and looked towards the door where the rousing sounds could be heard. Those grey eyes found her afterwards, and Sansa bit her lip and turned around.

Beric stopped beside the last room on the left and gestured for her to enter. Inside was a bed large enough to fit two people, a featherbed, she discovered, after pressing her hand down against the mattress, a small lit hearth just across from it, and a shuttered window at the far end of the room.

“Lady Sansa, you can take this room. Thoros will stay in the room across from you, and Clegane and I will stay in the one next to you.”

That struck Sansa as odd. _Why would they share a room?_ she wondered, until it suddenly occurred to her. _The men downstairs think me to be a whore. And what whore gets her own room?_ It was a prudent measure on Beric’s part not to stir suspicion, quite clever.

The room was much warmer than the common area. Sansa lowered the hood of her cloak and turned around to face the men. Beric and Thoros stood beside one another in the doorway, whereas the Hound stood fully inside with his arms folded, leaning with his back against the wall. He was eyeing her, almost strange. Sansa lost her balance and took a step back, bumping into the bed.

“Thank you,” said Sansa, “for everything.”

“Blount will recognize her if he has long enough to stare,” the Hound said. “Old, fat, drunk bastard that he is.”

“Aye,” Thoros agreed. “My lady, pardon my bluntness, but it’d be best for you to stay here the remainder of the evening.”

Sansa figured as much, but she didn’t mind. “Of course.”

“Clegane, you and I will return to the common area and bring up food and drink for the lady. We’ll need to visit the stables, too. Thoros will stay with her in the meanwhile,” Beric explained firmly.

Sandor’s jaw clenched as he narrowed his eyes at the lord. “ _Thoros_?”

“You and I will be quicker should Blount decide to claim that bounty after all.”

The tension in the room was becoming nearly as oppressive as the heat from the hearth. Sansa was growing eager to remove some of her layers.

“Well then, lead the bloody way,” the Hound grumbled.

“We’ll return shortly, Sansa,” Beric said, stepping back inside the corridor.

“And I’ll be right across from you, my lady. I’ll keep my door open should any of those drunks try anything,” said Thoros as he turned towards his room. “Don’t forget the wine, my lord!” he called out to Beric.

Sansa’s eyes returned to the Hound. She could still hear the sound of the couple’s lovemaking down the corridor and wondered if he could, too. He stood there, staring at her a second longer before stepping away slowly from the wall and exiting the room.

There was sweat dripping down her back. Sansa turned around and lifted her hands to unclasp her cloak, tossing the heavy thing onto the edge of the bed. Just when she made to sit down to remove her boots, she heard movement coming from beside the door. Sansa hastily looked over her shoulder and discovered Sandor standing in the entrance, his hand resting on the wooden door frame — the same hand she watched him use to pleasure himself the night before.

His face was somber, as was his voice. “Little bird.”

The guilt she felt about last night made her voice as small and soft as it had been when she was a girl. “Yes?”

“What I said down there…calling you a whore…” 

His eyes were downcast when he spoke, and there was a pensiveness about him that she had never seen before. _Whatever happened to him during the years apart, it changed him._

Sansa walked forward. In an effort to comfort him, she placed her hand gently on top of his. “It’s alright. I know why you said it.”

His eyes shot up from the floor upon her touch. Just as hurriedly, the Hound looked down the corridor, grabbed her hand, and brought it to his lips, giving her fingers the most delicate of kisses. That voice in Sansa’s head started to speak, droning on about innocence and something or the other, but she couldn’t quite hear it, not over the sound of her heart pounding inside her ears.

Sandor Clegane released her hand at the sound of a door shutting, then turned away to walk down the corridor.


	3. Sandor II

“How long have you been in love with Sansa Stark, Clegane?”

Sandor sat inside the doorway, half in a dream, struggling to keep his tired eyes on the corridor. Upon Beric’s question, his head jerked up and he stared at the lord wildly. 

“What are you over there blathering on about?”

The lightning lord sat at the foot of the bed with a cup of wine in his hand, his eye fixated on the swirling flames inside the hearth. “At first I thought this was merely a matter of lust. But I see the way you look at her. And I see how protective you are of her.” Beric shifted his attention towards the doorway and nodded his head once. “You love her.”

A spasm of irritation crossed Sandor’s face. He turned his head away to stare back out into the corridor. “Bugger you.”

A tense silence ensued, until he heard Beric say, “Sansa is beautiful.”

Filled with spite, Sandor snapped his head around and grabbed the hilt of his dagger. “If you want to die again, Dondarrion, you need only ask.”

The lord returned his gaze to the hearth. “Sansa is intelligent, too, and courteous. Sansa is many things, isn’t she? But that’s not why I’m helping her, Clegane.”

Sandor had nearly thrown the dagger into Beric’s one good eye before he heard that last part. “Then what is it?”

“The Lord of Light showed her to us. R’hllor wanted us to find her and take her home. The reason remains unclear. We’ve seen other visions of her and…well, I digress.” Beric swirled the wine in his cup before taking one long swig. “Thoros and I have a duty to take her to Winterfell.”

“And then what? Become one of her _noble_ suitors?” Sandor huffed.

Beric coughed a laugh and stood from the bed. “Is that what you think this is, Clegane? You think I desire Lady Sansa?”

“With all of your bloody chivalry, you’re damn near courting her right in front of me!” Sandor lowered his voice, almost forgetting that he had the door wide open. “Not to mention keeping me away from her, coming up with clever excuses, shoving me off the stairs so I can’t walk behind her.”

“Sansa is a lady and so I treat her as such,” he explained, kneeling down to stir the coals with an iron rod. “And I shoved you off the stairs because I dreaded what you might do being so close to…”

 _Her pretty little arse,_ Sandor thought, clenching his fists at the missed opportunity. _Perhaps Beric was right. I might have put my face right up her bloody skirts._

“I may be alive, Clegane, but death has changed me. I eat and drink and sleep, but I do not need to. Lust and love are naught to me but faded, tainted memories. There are times I wonder if they are even mine. I was betrothed once, and yet I could not begin to tell you what she looked like, nor could I tell you her name.” Beric rose from the floor and returned to the foot of the bed, his eye on the hearth, and then on him. “I admire Sansa’s beauty, but not out of lust. I respect her, but not out of love. You need not worry about me, Clegane. The days of me knowing the bittersweet taste of love died when I did.”

Sandor sat there, silent. He had never been one for sympathy, but the Elder Brother had changed that. He had changed that by making Sandor dig a grave for every man, woman, and child he ever killed. There were hundreds of them — hundreds. On that island, he knew no rest.

For the first time ever, Sandor pitied the six-time dead lord. And also for the first time ever, Sandor felt like he had a friend. _A friend I’d still kill, but a friend regardless._

“I look at her and I curse the gods,” Sandor confided in him. “Your fire god, the seven, the old gods, the drowned god — bugger them all for dangling someone so bloody perfect in front of me, knowing I can never have her, knowing she’d never want me in return.”

Beric considered him for a moment. There was pity in his eye, too. “Whatever you feel for the lady, you can show it to her in other ways other than—”

“Trying to fuck her?”

Beric pressed his lips together, inhaled deeply through his nostrils, and sighed. “You can protect her. You can make her laugh. You can teach her something new. You can even love her from afar. But if you truly care for her, if you know what is good for her, you’d do nothing more. She is a highborn woman — a Stark. With her legitimate brothers presumably dead, the North depends on her rule as Lady of Winterfell. If she were to...frolic with you, the northmen would riot. You’ve killed their brothers and sons and fathers; you served the Lannisters for years. No, Clegane, it can never be. Much like us, Sansa has a duty. She must needs marry a lord and have his children, carrying on the lineage of her house as well as his.” The lord paused briefly to look in the flames. “That is the way it must be, whether you like it or not.”

_I don’t just not like it, I fucking hate it._

“So that’s it then, eh, Dondarrion?” The venom was thick in his voice. “I spend the next month with her and fuck right back off?”

Inside the corridor, a door opened and slammed closed. Sandor quickly pulled loose his dagger and peered out, but realized it had only been a whore leaving one room to walk into the one just beside it.

“You could stay in Winterfell,” Beric suggested. “The Others march south — R'hllor has shown us this. Fight for her. And should you survive that battle, stay.”

Sandor thought he just might kill his only friend after all. “Stay and be forced to watch her marry some pretty lord? Watch her have his children?”

“You would not be the first man to do so, Clegane. Stewards, smiths, sellswords, hedge knights…many are no stranger to that pain, loving the forbidden, whether that’s a lady, a princess, or a queen. They may watch her marry, they may watch her bear children; even so, they keep near, for maybe loving her from a distance is better than not being able to love her at all.”

Sandor rested his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his palms. _The wolf bitch should have given me the gift of mercy and stabbed me with that Needle of hers. The Elder Brother should have let me rot beside that tree. Both would have been less painful than this._

Beric had moved like a shadow, silent and impossible to sense. Sandor startled once he felt a hand on his shoulder, lifting his head to discover the lord crouching down beside him. “Protect her, make her laugh, teach her something new,” said Beric, “but love her from afar, brother.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


The following afternoon, as they fed and watered the horses, Sandor taught her how to throw a dagger. 

“Relax your body, stand up straight, and keep your right foot forward,” he began, placing the blade into her hand with the hilt pointing towards the sky. He watched her knuckles grow white as she took it. “Bloody hell. Don’t grip it too hard, little bird.”

“Oh, alright,” she said. 

He noticed her folding her lips into her mouth to suppress a giggle, but it escaped her nevertheless. Sandor realized what it had been that amused her and almost laughed along with her. _The little bird has developed a crude sense of humor in the years apart,_ he thought. _She’s perfect._

Resisting the urge to lean down and kiss her coy smile, Sandor exhaled and stood behind her, guiding her hand with his. “Bend your wrist back towards your forearm. When you release the dagger, you’ll want to shift your weight onto your right foot and swing your arm forward from the elbow until it’s straight out.”

Sansa nodded, suddenly serious. “I’m ready.”

He removed his hand from hers and made to place it on her waist until Beric started clearing his throat behind him. Begrudgingly, Sandor took a step away from her. “Go on, girl.”

With finesse, Sansa squinted ahead, took in a deep breath, and released the dagger towards the trunk of the oak tree. It was half a rotation short, the hilt hitting the target and plopping down into the fresh sheet of snow. Sansa looked over at him and pouted. He would have cut off his sword hand to place that plump bottom lip of hers in his mouth. 

_Love her from fucking afar._

“Very close, Lady Sansa!” Thoros called out into his wineskin.

“Indeed,” Beric added. “Try again, my lady.”

Sandor walked forward and picked up the dagger, gently placing it into her hand. She looked up at him as he did and smiled. _Fuck you bloody gods._ His jaw clenched, preventing himself from feeling that smile against his lips. “You can do it, little bird.” He took a step back and watched her get into position.

The dagger flew forward. In the blink of an eye, the sharpened tip hit the target and stuck in the bark of the tree. Sansa gasped and brought her hands to her mouth, jumping and squealing with delight. 

_Despite everything, she remains so innocent,_ he thought, his cock growing hard at the sight.

Sandor imagined himself pressing his lips against hers and tasting her joy. He imagined picking her up into his arms and telling her how proud of her he was. He imagined pushing her down onto the snow and fucking her right into the ground. _Love her from afar,_ he thought bleakly. Instead he chuckled, clapped his hands, and walked off his erection by retrieving the dagger. “Nicely done, little bird.”

“The lady is a natural!” Thoros cheered.

“Aye, but we can only pray that the lady need not use that skill in practice.”

Sandor pulled the dagger from the tree and wiped it clean on his sleeve before sheathing it into his belt.“Mere entertainment, Dondarrion. She won’t need to toss a dagger, not while I’m around.”

Beric finished honing the blade of his sword and arose from the boulder on which he sat. “It’s time we were off.”

Rather than return to her palfrey alone, Sansa waited for him to approach. “Thank you for teaching me,” she said, staring at him with those innocent blue eyes. 

The blood rushed right back to his cock. “Anytime, girl.” 

Sandor walked with her towards her horse and lifted her onto the saddle, savoring each second his hands were on her waist. Once she was just barely towering over him, she asked, “Can we do it again tonight?”

The sun bled through the snow clouds above her, making every strand of her auburn hair glimmer in the light. _Fuck all the gods,_ he thought, _fuck them all._ Sandor nodded and looked away before he’d spend himself in his trousers.

As they rode that afternoon, he made her laugh. 

It didn’t take much. The little bird laughed freely, tickled by nearly everything he told her about his time spent traveling with her sister. “I lost count how many times that little bitch tried to kill me,” he said, not intending for _that_ part to sound amusing, but that didn’t stop Sansa from giggling prettily and loudly, tossing her head back, her long hair fluttering in the gentle breeze. 

He looked at her and cursed the gods for the hundredth time that day. 

The sun was low in the west and shelter was nowhere to be found. There was a small grove of trees to the east of the Kingsroad which would serve as a campsite, as feeble of one as it would be. Lacking what they needed to construct a tent, the three men tied the corners of a large linen sheet around four low tree branches in order to create a makeshift roof for Sansa to sleep underneath. It would not keep out the cold, but it would keep the snow from piling on top of her. He could scarcely bear to watch her shivering as the sun went down. As Beric and Thoros began to construct a campfire just beside where she would rest, Sandor removed his cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders, growing sick thinking about what awaited them further north. 

Once the fire had been built, they ate and talked some more, but Sansa could hardly keep her eyes open. Her head fell against his shoulder as she dozed off, resting there like it belonged. Thoros muttered something to Beric and laughed stupidly afterwards. When Sandor matched the lord’s gaze, it wasn’t suspicion in his eye nor was it caution — it was pity. 

_If Dondarrion weren’t so godly, he’d be cursing the gods right along with me._

Sandor would have let her sleep sitting against him all night had it not begun to lightly snow. Reluctantly, he moved and lifted her into his arms to lay her down onto the bedroll underneath the linen roof, covering her with his cloak first and then with her furs. She stirred a bit as he tucked her in, but she had still been asleep when she mumbled, “Lay with me.”

He wished the words had been meant for him. _Poor girl must think I’m her dead, pretty, gallant lord husband._ Sandor combed away the hair that had fallen in her face with his fingers, brushing them as gently as he could against her rosy cheek. He impulsively leaned down to kiss her there but caught himself becoming too bold and walked away.

That night, he protected her. 

Sandor sat with his back against a dead oak tree, his legs stretched out in front of him, and arms folded against his chest, admiring the sight. Sansa slept peacefully, beautifully, even outside in the cold. _That’s her northern blood,_ he thought _._ Wolves were howling far off in the distance. Sandor doubted they’d even harm a Stark but kept his sword close in any case. The falling snow remained tranquil, gradually piling on top of the linen sheet above her. He hardly felt the chill in the air, nor did he much notice the fluttering snowflakes falling onto his face, spellbound from watching the furs rise and fall with every one of her slow, steady breaths. 

_Fuck all the gods,_ he thought, giving in to sleep. _Fuck them all._

Sandor awoke suddenly, or so he thought.

His eyes opened to a darker campsite, the fire burnt out, nothing but streaming smoke and ashes. The snow was still in the air, floating and unmoving. The increased darkness made it next to impossible to see. Sandor leaned forward to peer underneath the linen sheet and realized the furs were no longer moving — Sansa was gone. 

He was on his feet within the next rapid beat of his heart, grabbing his longsword that leaned against the tree, surveying the area. Thoros and Beric were gone, too, as were their horses. It was just him inside that gloom, still grove until sounds grew audible from behind him.

He turned on his heel to run as fast as he could but his legs were nigh immovable, like two massive stones. It felt as if an hour had passed before he reached the source of the sound, coming from just outside the grove. Sandor stood in between two trees and stared out into the field beyond, unbelieving of what he was witnessing.

Sansa was on all fours in the snow, nude and heavily pregnant. A man with a shadowed face was kneeled behind her, grunting and thrusting away. She wasn’t screaming or crying or resisting, but neither was she moaning. She folded her arms down onto the snow and placed her forehead on top, submitting herself to the shadowed man as he took her from behind.

The sight infuriated Sandor worse than his brother. The sight horrified him worse than those green, unnatural flames that had burned the Blackwater. Once a whimper escaped her, he squeezed the hilt of his sword and took a step out from the trees. Sansa turned her head in unison and found him with those blue, sparkling eyes — sad and begging and so apologetic. He was ready to kill his first man since leaving the Quiet Isle until Sansa shook her head, mouthed to him, “Sandor, don’t,” and looked away.

Sandor awoke then, or so he hoped.

The fire blazed, the snow fell, and the little bird slept underneath the sheet. Sandor took a long, ragged breath and wiped his hands slowly down his face. “Fuck you bloody gods,” he muttered into his sweaty, shaky palms, “fuck all of you.” Knowing it had only been a dream did nothing to extinguish his wrath. Sandor stood up from the tree and snatched his sword with a grunt.

“Bad dream, brother?” 

Somehow he had not noticed Beric sitting there awake on the other side of the flames. Sandor glanced over beside him and saw Thoros lying unconscious in his furs, drunk, like as not.

Sandor gave him a dark look. “Watch her.”

Once he saw Beric nod, he took off. 

His legs weren’t heavy then. The grove of trees was not large _. I’ll have to be careful not to be too loud or I might wake her._ Sandor strode over to the opposite end of the grove and swung his steel as hard as he could at the nearest tree. The blade lodged in the trunk, so he pulled it out and swung again and again, quicker and harder each time. By the time that Sandor was finished, his hair was plastered to his brow by sweat and his warm breath clouded around him upon each sharp exhale.

He dropped the sword onto the ground and observed the tree in front of him. It looked like some great beast had been at it, clawing and gnawing away. Sandor leaned his forehead against the jagged trunk and rushed his hands to the front of his trousers, reaching inside to remove his cock. Sandor became aware of the frigid air then, but he remained solid in his hand all the same. His left hand pressed against the tree for balance as he stroked himself with the other. As much as the dream drove him mad with fury, it drove him madder with lust. He grunted against the bark as his hand did its duty, imagining himself having Sansa on all fours in front of him. Beautiful as she was, pregnancy made her more beautiful still. Sandor groaned thinking about what her cunt would feel like closing around him, cursing aloud when he imagined himself fucking her from behind and watching her love it. In some alternate existence it could be real. He could have her and fuck her and love her. And the child that she was carrying in her belly could even be his. Sansa Stark could be his.

He spent himself into the snow, cursing through gritted teeth during his release, and afterwards leaned against the tree with his flaccid cock put away inside his trousers. His sweat dripped slowly down his cheek, or maybe that wasn’t sweat at all. Sandor wiped his face dry with his sleeve and brushed back his hair before retrieving his sword from the ground and walking back to camp.

Once he returned, Sandor propped up his sword against the trunk, kicked off the fresh layer of snow that had collected on his bedroll, and sat back down, arms folded, legs stretched out, watching and protecting. 

Sandor caught sight of Beric glancing over at him with a wineskin in his hand. The lord took a sip, nodded once more, and returned his eye to the flames.

 _Love her from afar,_ he thought, watching Sansa’s furs rise and fall. _One day down, a bloody lifetime to go._


	4. Sansa II

Seven days passed, all without the touch of his lips. 

_He kissed my hand at the inn, gave me a taste of affection, and then stopped. Why did he stop?_

Not a waking hour nor a sleeping hour went by without her thinking about his kiss. She almost felt like a girl again, pure and innocent. Many men kissed her hand, it was common courtesy to do so as befit her status, but coming from Sandor Clegane was an experience like none other.

_The Others march south, dragons are said to have returned to the world, and I killed Petyr Baelish. And yet, none are more surprising than the Hound being chivalrous._

And chivalrous, he was — in his own way. Each day, he’d help her mount and dismount her palfrey, he’d ensure that she ate before he did, he’d talk to her about whatever she wanted to and refused to pry into what she didn’t, and he’d even come up with new things to teach her. That was her favorite. Sandor did many chivalrous things but, to her dismay, none involved his lips. 

_Could it be that his time on the Quiet Isle he told me about has made him chivalrous towards_ **_all_ ** _women? Perhaps this has nothing to do with having affection for me at all. Perhaps that’s the reason he kissed my hand only the once. And perhaps his lack of affection is due to my lost innocence._ That thought made her sad, and she had that thought far too often.

“Little bird,” the Hound called out to her from beyond the trees, “it’s time to go, girl.”

Shaking away the distressing thoughts, Sansa kneeled down to fill up her waterskin from the small, meandering stream inside a little forest just south of the Neck. The next week of travel would be hard, she knew. The Neck’s swampy terrain made the Kingsroad narrow and dangerous. However, the terrain _would_ slow them down, meaning she would have more days to spend with Sandor Clegane before returning home to Winterfell. 

_Once I’m home, Jon will not want me in the same tower as the Hound. That is, if he lets him stay at all…_ Sansa stood up from the ground and took a sip of the icy water, suddenly fiery. _Jon may be my older brother, but he’s a bastard, not a lord. I’ll be the Lady of Winterfell. I could have Sandor stay if I wanted. I could kiss him if I wanted. I could_ _—_

“Little bird!” 

_Oh no, he’s growing impatient._ Sansa was feeling a bit devilish that afternoon and a demon of mischief took hold. Rather than scamper through the forest to return to the men and horses, she decided to play a little game. _And hopefully the Hound is the only one who joins in._

“Oh gods, I’m lost!” she shouted, lying. 

“ _Lost_?” he bellowed. “Follow my voice!”

Sansa had to cover her mouth with her hand to keep from dissolving into laughter. He’d been making her laugh a lot as of late, whether that had been intentional or not, she was not certain. But what she did know for certain was that she loved it.

“I’m trying to,” Sansa said, “but the trees are playing tricks with me! Can you come find me?”

She listened to him faintly mutter something to Beric and Thoros followed by the sound of snow crunching underfoot as he drew closer. “Where are you?” the Hound shouted.

 _Time to play,_ she thought. _I’m not innocent at all._ “Over here!” she said, followed by quickly tiptoeing towards a new spot inside the forest. Once she found a large enough tree to keep her hidden, she pressed herself against the trunk and listened to him pass right by, unawares.

“Where the bloody hell are you, girl?” 

Sansa looked over her shoulder as she tiptoed away again, watching him stand beside the stream where she had started. He looked around with a frown, scratching his head. She dampened her girlish giggle with the hood of her cloak. 

“I’m right here!” 

The Hound turned around impossibly quick. Sansa just barely had enough time to hide behind another tree, laughing silently into the bark. The sound of snow crinkling resumed, growing louder. Sansa wanted to peek around the tree to gauge his distance but knew that if she did he might notice her; she certainly wasn’t ready for the game to be over. If it were up to her, they’d play until dusk. 

_If it were up to me, he’d kiss me again._

“Little bird,” Sandor Clegane said. His voice was no longer thick with bemusement, but rather playfully predacious. _He’s figured it out,_ she knew. A chill went right through her, raising goosebumps on her skin. Like a babe in the woods, Sansa carefully and anxiously listened out for her hunter. “You can’t hide from me forever.”

Sansa held her breath and slowly looked past the tree when his footsteps paused. He stood no more than ten feet away from her, facing the opposite direction. She bit her lip to keep quiet and fell back against the tree. _It’s all over if I make noise._ His footsteps resumed and then receded, then faded away into nothing.

 _Oh no, he must have gone too far,_ she thought. Sansa peered around to find him but observed nothing besides trees and snow, the latter of which had just started to fall heavier, accompanied by a brisk and chilly breeze. _Where did he go?_ She took a step away from the tree and looked all around, turning in circles again and again, becoming more anxious each time. By the time Sansa stopped, she was dizzy and disoriented, and then she really was lost.

“Sandor,” she called out softly. Somehow they had switched roles, and it was her turn to search for him. And yet, she still felt like she was the prey and him the predator, standing out in the open, vulnerable and seemingly alone. Sansa heard a noise come from behind her and quickly turned around with a sharp gasp, but there was no one to be found. She wrapped her arms around her waist as she approached the source, gently placing her hand on the trunk as she poked her head around the other side of the tree. 

But still, nothing. 

Off in the distance, the horses were nickering. Sansa could scarcely hear Thoros and Beric speaking to one another, the sounds of their distant voices nearly lost in the rampant breeze. _Perhaps Sandor went back,_ she failed to convince herself. _Or perhaps he only means to jump out and frighten me._ That seemed more likely to be the case. Her short, nervous breaths made it difficult enough for her to hear, but in tandem with the wind trickling in through the trees, it was all but impossible. _I won’t ever be able to hear him coming now._

Deciding that she’d rather not be beaten at her own game, Sansa took a step back, and then another, slowly retreating from the forest to return to the Kingsroad. Blind to what was behind her, she bumped into a tree. But then that tree moved and grabbed her wrist and spun her around, holding her so close.

The Hound looked down at her with malevolent eyes and whispered, “I win.”

The little of the air remaining in her lungs had been stolen, breathless with exhilaration. Out of necessity, out of the absence of her innocence, Sansa stood on her toes to give him a kiss. But rather than feel her lips press against his, she felt leather, her kiss intercepted by his large gloved hand. Once her eyes shot open, she wondered if she had ever seen Sandor Clegane so bewildered. _Bewildered...or overwhelmed with disgust._

His one hand released her wrist as the other fell from her mouth, and he took a single step to the side to clear the way. “Go,” he said firmly.

 _Myranda was wrong,_ Sansa thought, mortified. _Not only will the Hound not love me now that I’m no longer a maiden, he doesn’t want to be intimate with me either._

Sansa immediately dropped her head and moved forward towards the road. _Oh gods, don’t cry,_ she begged herself, swallowing the lump in her throat. _I’ve been spoiled with men seeking my favor since I was three-and-ten. Rejection is as foreign to me as chivalry is to the Hound. And that’s all it ever was_ _—_ _chivalry. Not affection nor love, not even lust._

On the awkward walk back to the Kingsroad, Sansa managed to hold back the tears that were begging to be shed. Petyr had been the one to teach her the art of manipulating her emotions; it was nothing to her to pretend like she didn’t care. Except that she did care. Sansa cared more than anything. 

The falling snow landed on her cheek, mimicking tears, though much too cold. The wind continued to ebb and flow with vigor, occasionally making her lose her balance as she stumbled over snow and stones and sticks and leaves. In between the howling gusts, Sansa could hear the Hound grumbling behind her, making her all the more tense. 

“Fuck the gods,” she heard him say, “fuck them all.”

“Are you alright, Lady Sansa?” Beric asked as they approached. Although the question was directed to her, his attention was fixed on the man behind her. The man who denied her kiss minutes ago.

That denial would sting for the rest of her life. “Yes, my lord,” Sansa feigned an innocent smile. “I had gotten lost.”

“There’s a storm coming,” Thoros broke in, closing his wineskin. 

The sight prompted Sansa to look down at her hands, discovering that her waterskin was no longer with her. _I must have dropped it during the game,_ she thought. _Or during my failed attempt to kiss Sandor._ Sansa cringed. 

“We’d do well to seek shelter for the lady before then,” Beric said, looking away from Sandor to mount his horse. “Let’s be off.”

As soon as Sansa turned towards her palfrey, the Hound took her waist and lifted her onto the saddle. His hands would usually linger a second or two afterwards, but just then he removed them at once. Before Sansa could thank him, he placed her waterskin into her lap and walked away.

Sansa lapsed into a silence. She would have sooner rode behind the men so that she wouldn’t have to hide how she really felt. Then again, putting on a false appearance came easy to her. Lying came easy to her. Petyr had taught her that. Petyr had been the one to teach her how to not be so innocent. _Charm, entrance, bewitch_ _—_ _that’s what he taught me how to do._ Sansa prayed that he was rotting in the seven hells. 

For the first time in a week, Sandor did not ride beside her. Instead he rode beside Beric, both of whom kept an unusual distance behind her and Thoros. She wondered if the Hound would tell him what she tried to do inside the forest, but soon doubted it. _Sandor is many things, but he’s never been one for gossip. Then again, he was also never one for chivalry…_

The weather worsened just as the day had, and they never did find shelter. However, there was no shortage of trees west of the Kingsroad. The wind became incapacitating, the snow blinding, and soon they were forced to retreat into a deeper, larger forest. It wasn’t the shelter she would have prayed for in such conditions, but it was better than nothing. At the very least, the canopy of bare branches above blocked _some_ of the snow from falling onto them. But the wind remained, icy, savage, and squalling.

They made camp inside a near-circular enclosure of six large trees. After brushing and watering the anxious horses, which proved to be immensely difficult during a storm, they ate a cold supper of salt beef and bread. Afterwards, they cleared out what snow they could on the ground before securing the bedrolls down onto the hard packed earth with stones and scattering the heavy furs on top. Sansa wasted no time in laying down, bundling herself as quickly as she could, though she was still shivering. The Hound had come to her after speaking with Beric and tossed his furs down to add to hers.

“No fire tonight,” he said, ending the hours of silence between them.

 _Clearly,_ she thought, still upset and abashed from earlier. _This wind will never allow a flame to remain lit._

Quite hurriedly, and completely unexpectedly, Sandor sat down beside her, draped the furs over the two of them, and laid on his side, wrapping his arm around her waist to bring her in close. “Come here, little bird.” 

Sansa’s heart skipped over its own rhythm, basking in the sensation of her back flush against his chest. 

“We’ll be warmer together,” Sandor added. 

Suddenly, the denial of her kiss stung a little less. Suddenly, she hardly remembered the pain at all. “Oh, alright.”

The muscles in his arm tensed. “Would you rather I go?”

“No!” she gasped, quickly following her plea with, “I’m very cold. Please stay.”

Sandor Clegane’s mouth rested just beside her ear. She couldn’t see his expression, but she could hear a note of elation in his voice when he said, “I’ll stay, little bird.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


She woke up to a clear night sky, the stars glittering in the darkness above as the wind soughed through the forest, gentle and calm. The Hound’s arm was still wrapped around her, heavy and so comforting. As she slightly shifted over to adjust herself, she made the not-so-innocent blunder of rubbing her bottom against his groin.

The sensation was fatally pleasant. And Sansa was dying to feel it again.

She contemplated it for a minute, waiting to see if the touch had woken him up. When she discovered that it hadn’t, she lifted up her head to ensure that Thoros and Beric were still asleep. Upon the sight of stillness, knowing that she was the only one conscious of her intentions, Sansa arched her back and brushed herself against him again, doing so much, much slower. 

A grunt escaped him and she froze. Once again, Sansa waited to see if he had woken up, until she felt something begin to poke the small of her back. She had slept with her lord husband enough times to know what that meant. And then that demon of mischief returned, becoming as deviant as she had been that afternoon. Unable to resist the temptation, Sansa inched her way up until his stiff manhood was pressing firmly against her bottom. 

Her little satisfied whimper was drowned out by his groggy, throaty growl. She immediately lifted up her head, worried that the others may have heard, but was greatly relieved to find otherwise. Sansa dropped her head back on top of the Hound’s arm, nuzzled into it, and softly rocked her hips some more.

 _This is so wrong,_ she knew, stopping herself, despite the dark instincts pressing her to continue. _He didn’t want me to kiss him. He certainly wouldn’t want me doing this._ Just as she nuzzled into his arm some more, forcing herself to remember her ladylike conduct and return to sleep, his hand seized her hip and pulled her closer.

 _Or perhaps I just convinced him,_ Sansa thought. _Perhaps he does want me afterall._ That was enough to give her the courage to speak, rubbing her bottom over the bulge in his trousers all the while. 

“Oh, Sandor.” She meant for it to come out as a whisper, but instead it was some combination of a moan and a breath.

He didn’t respond, not verbally, anyway. His once steady breaths had become erratic and heavy, and she was no longer alone in moving her hips. Their bodies found a rhythm, so natural and pleasing that Sansa felt her sex clenching in cadence, begging to be filled. “Sandor,” she said again. That time she _did_ moan. Once it passed her lips, the Hound dug his fingers into her waist and grinded up against her with fervid intensity. 

Fully clothed and fully covered, yet the act felt inexplicably better than anytime she laid fully nude with her lord husband. The more she had of Sandor Clegane, the more she wanted; rubbing and grinding were no longer enough. Without breaking their sensual flow, Sansa looked over her shoulder and twisted as far as she could to find his lips with her own. She found them, coarse and scarred and better than she remembered. He didn’t deny her that time, allowing her to kiss him with an insatiable desire.

But then his lips were still, and his eyes opened, blinking half a hundred times. It was at that moment Sansa realized he had been asleep the entire time. 

The Hound jolted and pulled himself away. Just as quickly he was staggering to his feet, visibly erect inside his trousers. He looked at her face and then at her poked out bottom, then towards the clear night sky through the bare, twisted branches above. “FUCK ALL OF YOU GODS!” he shouted and grabbed his sword, disappearing deep inside the forest. 

Sansa laid there, void of breath and speechless, staring ahead in a stupor. 

_What did I just do?_ she thought in horror. _I just...he was...Sandor never wanted me at all. He..._

“...my lady?….Lady Sansa.”

Like waking from a terrible dream, Sansa gasped as she looked over, wondering how long Beric had been crouched down beside her.

He wore a haggard expression when he asked, “What happened, Sansa?” 

_I was pleasuring myself in Sandor’s lap, thinking that he wanted me, too. I kissed him, assuming he was awake, but then he woke up and cursed and ran off with his sword,_ she recounted, but what she said was, “I...I don’t know. He just left.”

The campsite grew bright, as bright as day. Sansa looked over and shielded her eyes with her hand, discovering Thoros holding his sword, the steel blade engulfed in flames.

“Where’s Clegane?” he asked.

 _Oh gods, does he mean to hurt him for what we’ve done?_ Sansa thought, half in a daze. 

“He’ll be back,” Beric answered, with an exasperated sigh. 

“Shall I look for him?” 

“Believe me, Thoros, it’s best that you don’t,” the lord said, standing up from the snow. He took one glance at the sky and said, “First light is still a few hours away. We’ll build a fire for the lady now that the storm has cleared.”

And so they did, two fires, one just beside the bundle of furs where she lay and another several feet over. Afterwards, Beric and Thoros sat beside the second fire, gazing at the flames and speaking to one another in hushed voices. The fire beside her was warm, but not nearly as comforting as having the Hound lay behind her, his arm around her waist, her bottom pressed against his...

Sansa winced and covered her face with the furs. _Did he think I was someone else? He must have,_ she realized. _He had been so eager, until he saw that it was me and fled._ She felt as foolish as she did wanton just then. _Perhaps he will only ever see me as a child. Perhaps he only cares to protect me and nothing more._ She laid there wanting to scream, wanting to cry, wondering who it was that Sandor Clegane had been dreaming about.

Sansa envied the woman. Sansa hated her.

Sleep found her, somewhere in between the shame and despair. Some time later, she awoke to the sound of his voice, but he was not speaking to her. Sansa opened her eyes ever so slightly and remained still, observing Sandor sitting beside the fire with Beric. Before either of them might discover that she was watching them, she quickly shut her eyes. And then she listened.

“...keeps getting worse,” she heard the Hound say. “I should have stayed on that island. I should have died there.”

“She’s safer with you, Clegane,” said Lord Beric.

“She’ll be safe enough in Winterfell with that bastard brother of hers.”

“You don’t intend on staying, then?”

“Stay, and then what? Go through this every day?” He heaved a long, heavy sigh. “No. I’ll take her home, fight in this bloody war, and then leave.”

“The lady might miss you.”

The Hound didn’t respond.

“Where will you go?”

After a brief pause, Sandor said, “As far away from her as I can get.”

Sansa had no choice but to turn around. The men stopped talking and she began sobbing, digging her face into the bedroll and biting down on her tongue hard as she could to keep from making noise. She thought she just might suffocate, suppressing the urge to take in a deep, ragged breath. _They’ll hear me if I breathe._ There was a chill on the back of her neck from where the furs no longer covered, and a contrasting warmth on her face as her tears fell, uncontrollable. 

It had been a long while since she cried; Sansa had become so skilled at hiding it over the years, but just then, she couldn’t. _Petyr would be laughing at me,_ she thought. _He’d laugh and call me a pretty little fool if he were alive._ Although she kept silent, her body quivered with the sobs. _You need to stop,_ she told herself. _If you don’t stop, they’ll notice. And what will the Hound think of you, then? How will you explain to him that you’re crying because you’re stupidly and irrevocably in love with him?_

Steady footsteps became audible in the mantle of snow behind her, and Sansa knew without needing to look who it was that was approaching. The furs that had been displaced and tangled after rolling over so abruptly were pulled out from underneath, draped back over, and gently tucked into her side. The footsteps then walked around her, halting just in front of where she was facing. She wanted to look, but dared not lift up her face from the bedroll and reveal her tears.

There was almost silence. Wood split in the campfire, a raven squawked in the clear sky above, and the Hound grunted as he sat down heavily across from her. 

A deep, shuddering breath filled the air, and the last words Sansa heard before dawn broke were, “Fuck the gods.”


	5. Sandor III

A raven flew ahead. It was the third one that morning. _Dark wings, dark words,_ Sandor thought. _And darker fucking days ahead._

One hour they had been riding. The sky had been clear at dawn but not long after a breath of northern wind rolled in, and an overcast along with it. Even so, the winds were moderate and the snow had yet to fall. It was a rather quaint morning. It would have been a perfect morning to make the little bird laugh or teach her something new, but she had yet to speak to him. She had yet to even look at him. And that was because he had nearly fucked her in his sleep the night before. 

The memory would remain ingrained in his mind, for better or for worse. Sandor had a dream that he was fucking her, laying on his side with her in front, pounding into her warm cunt from behind. _Gods it felt too real, too bloody good._ And it was no wonder. When he awoke, he had taken her waist and had been humping her, literally rubbing his cock against her arse, like a dog. Out of all the despicable things he had done in his life, rape was not one of them. He had come close once, much to his chagrin. That night the Blackwater was up in green flames, he had come to her drunk and afraid and wanted her, needed her. But as desperately as he had desired her that night, he couldn’t do it; Sansa was too pure, too good for the world. She was as pure to him last night as she was to him three years ago — innocent, always. Sandor was convinced that she could slice a dagger across his throat and he’d continue to admire her innocence while bleeding out to death. 

_So innocent, so pure, and then I nearly fuck her while she’s asleep._

And the strangest part was, she had let him. Not that she knew it was him. Much like she didn’t know what she was doing when she had tried to kiss him inside the forest. _She’s a grieving widow, that's all that was,_ he told himself. _And last night while she slept, she was likely dreaming I was that gallant lord husband of hers._ They awoke together with their lips interlocked and their bodies so close that he could practically feel the heat escaping her cunt. When it had occurred to him what he was doing to her, when he saw that fearful realization in her eyes, he had pulled away, despite every instinct imploring him to stay. _Love her from afar,_ he had reminded himself, staring at her flushed face, her back arched and arse poked out, her skirts all but lifted. He had cursed the gods, loudly at that, snatched up his sword, and then plunged into the depths of the forest.

As much as he hated the gods for their sick sense of humor, he hated himself twice as much. 

_But the memory…_

He had walked nearly an hour in the darkness before mutilating a tree, as he did every night, and then took his cock into his hand, as he did every night, too. Sandor had been halfway there by the time he had started, his blood rapid in his veins from having massaged his cock against her arse. As much as he was ashamed for what he had done, he was more so deranged with lust. In four strokes he had spent himself in his hand and collapsed onto the earth, in tears. It had been then that he decided he couldn’t stay in Winterfell. He couldn’t stay and make her laugh. He couldn’t stay and teach her something new. And he couldn’t stay and love her from afar. Because he could no longer trust himself. 

When he returned, he had confided in Beric — partially. Sandor failed to mention the part about trying to fuck her in his sleep. _If he knew that, he’d geld me with that flaming sword of his._ Instead, he admitted to waking up with his cock up and left it at that. 

The following morning he would have apologized, should have apologized, but from the moment Sansa awoke, she had not exchanged a single glance with him. _But what would I say to her if she did? ‘Forgive me for poking you with my cock half a hundred times’?_

Not only would she not look at him, but when it had been time to mount, Sandor watched her walk over to Beric and whisper something into his ear. Afterwards, the lord had led her to her palfrey and lifted her onto the saddle. 

_Here we are again,_ Sandor had thought, _right back to where we fucking started._

Time passed as they continued to head north, as did the silence, giving him time to reflect and hate himself some more. After an hour, Sandor looked over at Beric with narrow eyes and gestured with a single nod for him to slow down so that they could speak alone. Once Sansa and Thoros were a far enough distance away, he asked, “What did the girl say to you before we left?”

Beric stared ahead, stoic. “Lady Sansa needed assistance mounting her horse.”

“Aside from that,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Death has changed me, Clegane. It has taken my memory and replaced it with scars. It has taken my joy and replaced it with tireless duty. It has taken and taken...but do you know what it has left?” He looked away from the road and met his gaze. “Doubt.”

 _I hate talkers._ Sandor’s mouth quirked in annoyance. “Speak in the Common Tongue, Dondarrion.”

“When we spoke last night, you told me you awoke aroused.”

 _Fuck._ It wasn’t a lie, but neither was it the whole truth. “Aye, what of it?”

“I should have never agreed to let you lay with her, no matter the weather,” Beric sighed, shaking his head. “When you returned and told me that you would no longer stay in Winterfell, I had my suspicions. But judging by the lady’s behavior this morning, something happened last night. Something you’re not telling me.”

Frowning, Sandor regarded him critically for a moment. _The little bird hates me, and soon, she’ll be home and I’ll have no choice but to leave her,_ he thought miserably. _Fuck it, let this dead shit geld me all he wants._

“You want to know what happened, do you?” he began, his voice a guttural rasp. “Well, Dondarrion, I just about fucked her bloody. Does that confirm your doubt? I rammed my cock into the same pretty little arse you helped mount on that palfrey. Had my cock been out and her skirts been lifted, my seed might still be dripping out of her cunt as we speak. Or better yet, my bastard might be growing inside her womb. But you didn’t know that, did you? You didn’t see _that_ in your flames. You didn’t know that I nearly raped the woman I love!”

Had there been no wind, had he said that any louder, Sansa may very well have heard. Sandor only knew what he was saying after he said it; those final three words sounded strange coming out of his mouth. _Beric already suspected that I loved her,_ he knew. ‘ _Love her from afar’…it was no secret._ But as the lord scrutinized him, Sandor wondered if Beric had hoped to be mistaken about that assumption.

He expected the lord to scold him for what he had done, criticize him for what he had said, pull out his flaming sword and slice off his cock. But instead, Beric stared at him and said, “Sansa is to be wed, Clegane.”

The words burned like cruel fire, and hotter still — more painful than if he had been gelded by scorching steel. “Let me guess, your fire god showed you some vision in the flames?”

Beric nodded, not taking heed of Sandor’s mockery. “The Lord of Light did just that.”

 _They were right about where to find her,_ he thought with bitter resentment. _Why would this vision be any less true?_

 _Fuck the gods._ “To who?”

“Thoros and I suspect she will be wed to one of the Greatjon’s surviving sons — an Umber.”

Sandor embedded the name in his head. _The next time I come across an Umber…_ “What the bloody hell do you mean you ‘suspect’? Will she or will she not?”

“Visions are often not what they seem. Some are vague, more are naught but shadows within the flames. Which is what he was — a shadow, of sorts. Large, like the Umbers, well loved by the northmen, and accepted by the bastard of Winterfell. A marriage between northern houses, it would seem. And apt, as the north will be vying for their independence, in due time.”

“A shadowed Umber, eh?” Sandor looked forward at the woman riding far ahead of him, recalling the dream he had a week ago. He had been walking through the forest and found Sansa on her hands and knees in the snow, watching her be fucked by a man with a shadow for a face. _She was with child, too, and begged me to not kill the man…this Umber._ He clenched his fists on the reins. “When did you see this?”

Beric looked at him with pity in his eye. “At the inn, just before realizing that you love her.”

Sandor chuckled dryly and rolled back his shoulders. “You failed to mention that.”

“There’s little joy in telling a man that the woman he loves is destined for another.”

“So why tell me now?”

The lord sat still in his saddle, contemplative for a moment. “Partially because it felt wrong not to. And partially because I hope it will serve as a reminder about our conversation at the inn, why you must needs love the lady from afar, if at all.”

Sandor spat on the ground to show him what he thought of that. “Death should have taken your hope when you died.”

“R’hllor shows us what we need to know and that alone. Hence, this marriage is of dire importance. The Lord of Light demands it.”

“Your Lord of Light is a cunt,” he grumbled.

Beric ignored that. “What happened last night can never happen again, Clegane. It was a foolish mistake on both of our parts.” 

_It wouldn’t be able to happen again in the first place since she won’t so much as look at me,_ he thought.

When he didn’t respond, Beric added, “Swear it.”

Sandor snorted at the audacity. “Swear what?” 

“Swear on the love you have for Lady Sansa that you won’t ever do anything to obstruct her from marrying Lord Umber’s son — that includes tainting her reputation. That includes touching her in a way she shall not be touched.”

“I’ll do you one better, Dondarrion,” he began with a wry smile. “I’ll swear it on your Lord of Light.”

Beric regarded him with uncertainty. After a moment, he nodded and urged his horse forward to return to the others.

Sandor looked ahead, admiring how Sansa’s auburn waves rippled in the breeze, and thought, _It’s a good thing I don’t believe in that buggering god,_ and rode ahead.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


Late that afternoon, something felt wrong. 

The wind had picked late that morning, and soon after the snow fell, constant and soundless, blinding them of the horizon. Sandor surveyed what he could, peering out towards the east and west, trees on either side. “Are the crannogmen this far south?”

Beric shook his head. “No, but we’re like to encounter them on the morrow when we approach the swamps. It will be a peaceful exchange — they’ll recognize Lady Sansa. Howland Reed was a close friend of Lord Eddard Stark.”

For the first time that day, Sansa looked over her shoulder and stole a glance at him. Sandor nearly fell off his horse. _At bloody last, the little bird acknowledges me. I should say something, apologize…_

While contemplating what he might say, a quarrel flew past an inch away from his face, coming from the east. Stranger became wild beneath him, forcing him to tug violently on the reins.

“Bloody fucking hell!” Acting on instinct, he fell in beside Sansa to shield her. “I thought you said these fuckers wouldn’t attack!” he shouted at Beric.

“Those are no crannogmen,” Thoros said, squinting towards the eastern horizon.

Another arrow rushed towards them, piercing Beric an inch below the right side of his ribs. Sansa screamed, but the lord didn’t so much as grunt at the impact. Instead, he wielded his sword and drew his left hand down the edge of the blade, enveloping the steel in flames. Sandor’s stallion and Sansa’s palfrey frightened at the sight, but Beric and Thoros’ horses were accustomed to the flames.

Faint shouting could be heard coming from their right. Looming out of the dead foliage to the east were riders, five he was able to count with a fleeting glance in the drifting snow. They wielded no banners, nor could he make out the arms painted on their shields. But rather than riding east towards them, they rode north. _They want us to approach them,_ he realized. He spotted the mounted archer last, watching as he loosened a third quarrel to land just shy of Stranger’s hoof. 

“Fuck!” Sandor shouted, tugging on the reins. “We need to kill those bastards!”

Beric looked over at Sansa, and then at him, grim and foreboding. “Not all of us. We can’t risk it,” he exhaled. “Clegane, you need to take her.”

The wind picked up and blew the snow sideways, temporarily blinding them from the archer. He exchanged a look with Sansa and read the fear etched on her face, unknowing whether that was due to the threat to the east or the prospect of being alone with him.

“We can ride west,” Sansa said, far calmer than she appeared. “All of us.”

“They’ll only follow, my lady.” Unwincing, Beric ripped out the quarrel from his flesh and retook the reins, giving Sandor one last threatening glance. “Remember what I told you, Clegane.” The lightning lord turned his horse due east, proceeding towards his probable seventh death. 

Thoros muttered a prayer, decorating his own sword with flames. “We’ll find you north of here, Lady Sansa,” he said without a glance and joined in behind his lord.

Sandor looked into her eyes, blue and alarmed and haunted. Even then they were beautiful, tormentingly so. He would have gladly taken a quarrel to the head at that moment if it meant his final breath would be spent staring at the one thing that ever brought him happiness. _They’ll take her if I die,_ he knew, _or worse._

“Come with me, girl.”

Hesitating, perhaps even considering death before traveling alone with him, she nodded and followed him west of the Kingsroad, riding away at a canter. Behind them, in between the gusts of wind, he heard steel clash against steel followed by cries of anguish, the song of death. _The last of the brotherhood, gone._

Stranger was far faster than her palfrey, forcing Sandor to pull on the reins to match her pace. Even so, she rode remarkably well. _Teaching her to ride was the only thing her gallant lord husband did right._ He took a quick glance and watched as she rode beside him with a matchless grace and poise, entranced by the way her hair whirled about in the wind. _Even in the midst of an ambush she remains impossibly beautiful._

The terrain worsened the further they rode west, uneven and strewn with stones, though preferred over the swamps and bogs he knew they’d face on the morrow. _Fuck the Neck,_ he thought. Sandor scanned ahead and veered towards the right. There were trees there, but not enough. They’d have to ride further if they hoped to seek shelter and hide from whoever meant to plant a quarrel in his head and take her. 

They rode for an hour, bound for the west, until those gods he abhorred decided to grant them one promising sight at the onset of yet another winter storm. Beside a second bank of trees was a hill, and underneath that hill he spotted an opening, an entrance. _It’s a bloody cave, in the bloody Neck._ He almost couldn’t believe their luck and chuckled under his breath, even considered thanking the gods, though he could never do that. _Not when Sansa is destined to be wedded to a fucking Umber._

Leading towards the cavern’s entrance was a tangle of roots and loose stones, making it infeasible to travel ahorse. Sandor pulled on the reins to come to a halt, dismounted, and then helped Sansa do the same. His hands longed to take Sansa’s waist, but noticed her tense up once he touched her. “Thank you, ser,” she said, making no eye contact. 

_What in the seven hells? She hasn’t called me ser since she was a trapped little bird in King’s Landing,_ he thought. _Perhaps that’s what she feels like now_ — _my prisoner, my hostage._

It was evident enough that she despised him for what he had done to her last night; he wasn’t about to gripe about her courtesies and make it worse. Sandor tied the horses no less than fifty feet outside of the cave. When he turned towards the narrow entrance, stepping onto the jagged, uneven earth, Sansa said, “Our horses...”

Sandor turned around and discovered her lingering beside her palfrey, petting its mane, as white as the snow flurrying about her. _So fucking innocent._ “Pray for them,” he suggested. _Not like those buggering gods will listen._

After she stumbled the first time, Sandor offered his hand to help her across. Sansa looked at it, shook her head, and then took another step. _The little bird might hate me, but I can’t let her twist an ankle._ Acting quickly, he picked her up with one arm and tossed her over his shoulder, carrying her towards the entrance of the cave. To his surprise, she didn’t fight him off, nor did she utter a rebuff. _She didn’t fight me off last night either, but that doesn’t mean that she wanted it._ Having her arse so close to his face and not being able to put it on his mouth was a sick form of torture. Sandor thought about how good it felt against his cock and was met with bitter guilt, wishing that quarrel had been one inch closer to his face.

Once beside the entrance, he set her down onto her feet, to which she said for the second time, “Thank you, ser,” and swiftly took a step away, clutching her arms to her chest.

_Alone with the little bird for the first time in three years and she fucking loathes me. Fuck you buggering gods._

He entered the cave first, longsword in hand. Inside, there was a chilling darkness that consumed all that entered. The only noises he heard as he blindly walked forward were the echoes of his footsteps and dripping water off in the distance. When there did not appear to be any threat inside, he returned to Sansa and gestured for her to go in while he went to retrieve what he could to start a fire.

Even in the oppressive blackness, Sandor could tell that she was watching him the entire time. When the spark lit and the wood caught fire, he looked up and noticed her wringing her hands, her face pale even in the red-orange glow. _She fears for me,_ he thought. That just about made him smile.

After building the fire in the center of the drafty cave, he returned to their horses and grabbed what they would need for the night — bedrolls, furs, food and water — and came back to find her sitting beside the fire, cloakless, running her fingers through her hair that shone brilliant red in the light. It was innocent, and yet the sight was seductively sweet. And his cock responded. _Fuck._

Once they had laid out their bedrolls, to which Sansa had waited to see where he would place his before setting hers down a significant distance away, they sat on opposite ends of the campfire and ate supper in continued silence, save for the howling wind, hissing fire and incessant dripping of water.

It was just the two of them and the fire inside the drafty, strange, unusual cave in the Neck. And for once, he feared something more than the dancing flames in front of him. He feared the woman sitting across those flames hating him for what he had done, for what he had yet to apologize for. He feared the day he’d have to leave her. Above all else, he feared Beric’s vision, knowing that it would inevitably come true. _Lord Umber,_ Sandor thought contemptuously. The more he thought about it, the more aggressive his disposition became, and the more reckless he grew. ‘ _Remember what I told you, Clegane’,_ he sourly recalled Beric’s last words. 

Sandor watched her, the way the light reflected on her flawless skin, how prettily she ate and sat and blinked and breathed. Knowing another man would be seeing what he saw, and knowing that giant bastard would fail to appreciate it, awoke a beast inside him, a rage that should have died on the Quiet Isle. _It’s not bloody fair,_ he thought. ‘ _Remember what I told you, Clegane’._

He stared and stared, even laughed to himself, half in spite and half in envy. Sansa looked at him then and knitted her brows. That was sweetly seductive to him, too. Another minute passed, and then another, as wind was squalling and wood was crackling and water was dripping. And then, when the words were all but demanding to come out, Sandor thought, _Fuck the gods. Fuck Beric and Thoros. Fuck it all._

“I hear you’re to be wed.”

Sansa looked up at him midbite, those perfect blue eyes slowly squinting. “Pardon?”

“You heard me, girl. I hear you’re to wed an _Umber_ ,” he said, cursing the name.

“Umber?” She placed her bread down onto the ground and slowly smoothed out her skirts. “Where did you hear this?”

“From that dead lord and his red wizard.” 

She gazed at the fire for a moment and said, “Oh.”

 _Oh? What does she mean by oh?_ He was hoping that she might grimace at the prospect or laugh at its absurdity, but she merely sat there, silent and pensive, as if she were considering it. Sandor crossed his arms over his chest, ready to torture himself by learning the truth of that hunch. “What do you think of that, little bird?”

Her eyes lifted from the flames, looking everywhere in the cave, except at him. “I don’t know.”

That answer pleased him even less. “You don’t know?”

Sansa stood up from the ground and straightened her dress. He couldn’t tell whether she was angry or anxious or afraid, but she did appear to be deep in thought. _Perhaps she’s only trying to contain her excitement._ “If it’s true,” she began, “I hope that I make him a good wife, _ser_.”

 _There she is,_ Sandor thought, _my little bird, chirping her old little songs, repeating all the little words she was taught._

Just as Sansa turned around, failing to bid him goodnight, he said, “Do you want to know what I hope for?”

She stopped in place but didn’t look over. “What?”

Sandor leaned forward, placed the waterskin onto the ground, and clasped his hands in front of him, ready to pass the point of no return. “I hope your precious Lord Umber proves his gallantry in battle, just like your last husband.”

Sansa’s hair whipped around her as she turned to face him. Lascivious thoughts ran through his mind as he watched her mouth part open in awe. She stood there, unintentionally seductive, and stared at him, as if she could not trust her ears. 

“That was…unkind.”

He shrugged. “That was the truth.”

“What do _you_ know of the truth anymore?” she asked, covering her mouth with one dainty hand just after. 

Sandor sat up taller, unable to repress his developing smirk. _I’ve struck a nerve, and her mummer’s act is up._ “It’s all I know, girl.”

Once she dropped her hand, he watched her silently make the decision to pass that point along with him. “Then why do you keep it from me?”

His smirk fell. _Fuck,_ he thought. _What does she know?_ Erring on the side of caution, he said, “Some truths have to be kept so that little birds like you don’t get frightened and fly away.”

“I’m not a little bird and I’m not a child,” she said, scowling. “I’m a woman!” The word echoed inside the cave. “...woman, woman, woman….”.

The angrier she grew, the stiffer his cock became inside his trousers. Sandor drank in the sight of her curves and the shapely shadow projected on the cave wall behind her, then nodded. “That you are.”

“And yet, you’re keeping truths from me.”

 _If it’s honesty she wants, if I’m to sit here and confess my love to her, then it’s honesty I’ll demand in return._ “What of you, little bird? Do you think I’m so blind that I haven’t noticed you hiding something in that saddle bag of yours? Or do you only think I’m a fool, incapable of wondering how the Lady of the bloody Eyrie ends up traveling alone in the first place?”

Speechless, Sansa’s frown softened and her eyes dropped guiltily towards her feet.

“No,” he continued, “you haven’t been honest either, have you, girl?”

“No, I haven’t,” she said wistfully.

 _We’ve gone too far now,_ he thought. _That bridge has burned, and there’s no leaving this cave for hours._ Sandor observed her subdued demeanor and wondered with sick desperation what it was passing through that clever little mind of hers.

 _Fuck it,_ he thought one last time. “We played that little game of yours in the forest — it’s my turn now. You and I, we’re going to sit by this fire and exchange truths. Let’s just see which one of us has been less honest with the other.”

Almost dutifully, Sansa nodded and sat across the fire with her legs folded underneath her. She straightened out her skirts, rested her hands in her lap, and took in a breath, long and trembling. On the final threshold, those blue eyes looked at him and reflected the scintillating flames. Beric’s last words spoke to him just then, as if he were begging him from whatever hell his Lord of Light had him burning in. But that plea was drowned out once the woman he loved said, “You first, Sandor.”


	6. Sansa III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The smut that was promised.

The sparks from the cave fire were thoroughly enchanting, swirling softly above the flames like they wanted to be seen, like they hoped to be heard.

Sansa braced herself, wiping her sweaty hands on her skirts as she awaited Sandor Clegane to reveal that he had grown tired of her crude advances. And not only that, but that he had grown tired of her. 

_Why would he wish a potential suitor of mine dead?_ she wondered. _Unless he simply doesn’t want me to be happy. Perhaps underneath his newfound chivalry, the Hound actually hates me._

But that was not consistent with their time together the past week. The playful banter, the laughing, the teaching…all of it expressed the complete opposite, that he was fond of her company, that he was fond of her. _Well, aside from when I tried to kiss him in the forest. And aside from last night…_

The memory would always make her cringe. After overhearing his and Beric’s conversation, Sansa told herself she would no longer bother Sandor for anything — not for help, not to teach her things, not to talk, not for a single thing. Moreover, she decided to act as meek and courteous as she had been as a child in King’s Landing.

_He only ever knew me as innocent. And now that I’m not, he can’t abide with me. He can’t wait to get away from me._

However, the attempt did not last long, not even one full day. Although physically Sansa favored her mother’s family, House Tully, she had within her the same blood of her father, Stark blood, blood of the Kings of Winter. Wolf blood, they called it, a feistiness and willfulness that she often did not show. While her little sister was far more “wolf” than she, Sansa had her moments — the times she disrespected Joffrey, her refusal to kneel down for Tyrion Lannister to cloak her during their wedding, and most of all, her hatred towards Littlefinger. A hatred that led her to kill him.

Stark blood ran through her veins indeed. And the older she became, the more it revealed itself. Hence, when the Hound started to act smug, blatantly lying to her right in front of her face, Sansa’s attempt at acting like a docile little girl collapsed. 

_He claims to be so honest. ‘A hound will die for you, but never lie to you’, that’s what he told me. And yet, he lies to me as we speak. He hides his detestation for me and my lost innocence behind chivalry._ She couldn’t refrain from raising her voice at him, nor calling him out. _Well, I’m not innocent,_ she thought. _I am a woman now. He must learn to accept that, whether he wants to or not. And I’ll hear him say it._

The Hound sat across from her on the other side of the enchanting flames, shifting in his seat, raking his fingers through his hair, glancing all about. She fiddled with her skirts as she waited for him to speak, minutes having passed without either of them uttering a word. Sansa could only sit there and await for him to reveal the truth, for better or for worse.

 _For worse,_ she knew. _Because I have to play this game, too._

His brooding eyes met hers, and the game commenced. “When I said I was sorry about your husband being dead, I lied. I’m glad that he’s dead. And if he wasn’t, well…I’ll let you finish that thought.” 

_No, he doesn’t want me to be happy at all,_ she realized, fidgeting with the woolen fabric in her lap. _Not that I was ever happy with Harry to begin with. Still, he has yet to admit his dislike for me._

“Why?” Sansa asked.

“This isn’t a game of questions, little bird. This is a game of truths,” the Hound said. He took a long sip from his waterskin and then tossed it onto the cold, hard ground, dissatisfied. “I told you one, now it’s your turn.”

Unable, and moreso unwilling, to reveal the biggest truth regarding how she felt about him, Sansa considered another. _Whichever truth I reveal, it will shatter any remaining notion that I am still innocent._ She stared at him and fidgeted with her skirts a little fiercer. “I left the Vale because…I stabbed Petyr Baelish.”

The Hound grinned, and he looked proud. That was the last reaction she expected. “I knew that already.”

“You—.” Her heart sank to her stomach. “How did you know that?”

“Our dearly departed lord and priest.”

Sansa looked in the flames. They burned brighter, as if they knew the truth of those words. “They may not be dead.”

“Two against five, maybe more, and one was an archer.” Sandor snorted, but there was a somberness to it. “They’re dead, girl.”

She prayed it wasn’t true. They risked their life to take her home, for whatever reason. They were not pledged to House Stark, nor were they to the North, but they helped her all the same. But Sansa was no longer naive and gullible. She knew how grim the world could be and how death seemed to consume all those around her. Could they be dead? Certainly...likely. Still, she wasn’t quite willing to be as openly cynical as the Hound.

“I’m waiting.”

Sansa’s eyes shot up from the brilliant sparks. “I just went,” she said, bemused. “It’s your turn.”

“No, I knew that truth,” said Sandor. “That means it doesn’t count.” 

When Sansa crinkled her eyes at him, frowning, he laughed, a loud rasping laugh that reverberated off the walls. The cave felt lighter just then, less ominous. A smile played on her lips as she watched him. _Scarred he may be, and harsh, too, but he’s comely unlike any other man I’ve met_ — _comely in a way only Sandor Clegane can be._ She wished that he would smile more. Not wanting to look like a lovesick fool, Sansa feigned a cough into her hand and hid her adoration.

“My game, my rules,” he said. “Now go.”

She sat there pondering, tugging at her skirts as the atmosphere became heavy again. _I could mention that I have his Kingsguard cloak, but that will only make me look more infatuated with him. And how am I supposed to admit that I watched him pleasure himself? Oh gods, anything I say will make me look utterly obsessed._

“You have three seconds to tell me a truth,” the Hound interrupted her internal deliberation. “Else…”

Sansa looked at him, wide-eyed. “Else what?”

The Hound smirked. “Three.”

“Wait, I don’t know—”

“Two.”

“Sandor, that’s hardly fair! I—”

“On—”

“I have your Kingsguard cloak!”

He sat up straighter, his crooked smirk disappearing. “What did you just say?”

“That’s what is in my saddle bag,” she confessed. “Your Kingsguard cloak.” Sansa dropped her eyes into her lap and noticed that she had ripped the threading of her dress from twiddling with it so frantically.

Sandor was disturbingly quiet for a moment, until he asked, “Why did you keep it?”

When Sansa didn’t hear disgust in the tone of his voice, she looked up at him. “I do remember you saying this is not a game of questions.”

He scratched over his stubble. “Aye, I did say that,” he grumbled.

Sansa suppressed a smile. “Your turn.”

Without hesitation, without dropping his gaze, the Hound said, “The day I begged your sister for the gift of mercy, I told her that I should have fucked and killed you before leaving you for the Imp.”

Sansa’s mouth fell open just as the fire seemed to surge. _If he was begging Arya to kill him, he would have said anything to get her to do it, the worst thing he could think of. The Hound would never hurt me,_ she knew, but all she could say to him was, “Oh.”

“ _Oh_?” He gave a quick, mirthless laugh. “There it is again. You like that word, don’t you?”

“Do I?”

“It’s what you said after you learned you’ll be wedding and bedding an _Umber_.”

There was venom in his voice when he said that, and his tone stirred her Stark blood, awaking the fierceness within her. Sansa furrowed her brow. “It doesn’t matter what you heard. I’ll not wed an Umber, nor will I bed one.”

The Hound sat back painstakingly slow. “Now there’s a pretty truth,” he muttered, standing up from the ground. “I’ll not let this Umber wed or bed you, either. And you want to know why, girl?” He regarded the fire with his hands on his hips, as if he was waiting for something before saying, “Because I…want you.” 

The wood inside the fire split, releasing a cloud of red-orange and yellow sparks that danced inches from her face. Sansa squinted away from it before reading his expression, waiting to discover a grin or a smirk, something to tell her that he was only being cruel and jesting. But he wasn’t. Sandor stood there with conviction as the firelight underneath him illuminated his face, making his features appear sharper than they already were. She could only stare at him across the blazing flames, wonderstruck.

And then it all started to come together. _When he spoke to Beric about it getting worse, it was not me he was referring to,_ she realized, wondering how she could have been so witless. _He was referring to himself. All this time, he’s been stopping himself from making advances, not me._

That truth had doubtlessly been difficult for him to reveal, so Sansa decided to match it with her own. She rose from her seat on the cave floor and clasped her hands in front of her, meeting his gaze. “I watched you.”

The wintry wind howled from beside the entrance as Sandor Clegane stood motionless, considering the words. “Watched me when?”

“That first night when you were...pleasuring yourself.”

He let out a harsh breath and looked away, running his hand over his mouth.

Sensing his embarrassment, Sansa added, “And I liked it.”

The Hound jerked his head towards her and stared in silence as the seconds passed. Sansa counted them with the distant drips of water inside the cave. She made it to seven before he cleared his throat. “I thought about you while I did it.”

Her breaths quickened. Dauntless and bold, channeling the woman she grew to be in the three long years apart, she said, “I touched myself, too — that same night. And I thought about you.”

Sandor lumbered towards her and reached out to grab her arm, pulling her in intimately close. “Don’t you lie to me!” he rasped.

“I’m not,” she said, the air in her lungs all but absent. “I swear it.”

As the one hand seized her arm, his other grasped the back of her neck, preventing her from looking away. “I do it every night,” he revealed, in a guttural tone. “Once you go to sleep, I find myself an aurochs of a tree and hack into it with my sword. And once its left in bloody ruins, I fuck myself to the thought of you.”

His candor was poetic, inspiring her to reciprocate it. Back and forth they went, passing truths with the swiftness of two swords clashing against one another in a melee. 

“I want to watch you do it again,” Sansa said.

“Not until I watch you do it. Not until I see the way those pretty fingers of yours play with your cunt.”

“I’d sooner you play with it.”

The Hound chuckled darkly. “I’ll do more than just play with it.”

“I wanted you last night.”

He lowered his face an inch away from hers, speaking through clenched teeth. “I’ve wanted you since I saw you in the Riverlands, little bird. And since we’re being honest, I’ve wanted you before then — way before then.”

A moan escaped her. “I want you right now.”

The wood in the fire cracked unnaturally loud, sending a thick plume of smoke and a spray of sparks into the air beside them. They both startled at the sound, but Sandor moreso, watching the flames burn with unmitigated fear. 

Just as she made to place her hand on his cheek, he broke away from her and paced backwards, as if he had just woken up from sleep again. “The northmen would riot,” he muttered to himself, clenching his fists. “If I know what’s good for you…” Quite abruptly, Sandor walked over to grab his sword from the ground and turned towards the entrance to the cave.

Sansa pursed her lips as she watched him scramble about. _He fears for me should the northmen learn of what we do,_ she quickly realized. That was considerate of him, but it was also vexing. _I’ll be the Lady of Winterfell, the Wardeness of the North_ — _my private affairs need not be discussed with the northmen. And I won’t let them be._

On a whim, Sansa said, “What if I don’t want to know what’s good for me?”

He halted and dropped his sword, the sound of steel clanking against strone echoing for four waterdrops afterwards. “Fuck the gods,” she heard him exhale miserably. 

It was the perfect opportunity to respond with something clever. Sansa had seasoned herself in the art of playful banter during her time in the Vale by listening to Myranda’s many bawdy japes, and even dished out quite a few of her own. _Charm. Entrance. Bewitch. Perhaps the lessons that stole my innocence will serve me now._

“No,” said Sansa, “fuck me.”

That made him turn around. That made him draw nearer. That made him bury his hands in her hair as he grabbed her head and pulled her in for a kiss — a kiss unlike any other, shameless and urgent, demanding to be felt. Their tongues met in unison, as if they had it rehearsed. Sansa tasted him as he tasted her, pulling her in closer until his scars were flush against her cheek. While their mouths were joined, Sansa’s hands found the bottom of his woolen tunic and dug inside, trailing her fingers across his skin underneath. His muscles felt like sculpted stone, and his battle scars were discernible upon her first touch. Sandor had many of those, and as her fingers brushed over them, she found herself falling more and more in love with him, becoming more and more grateful that the gods had not let his wounds fester into something more. 

The Hound bit her lip just then, causing her to moan. She would have liked for him to do it again, but he pulled away and shifted his attention towards her bodice, using both hands to tug at the laces. Somehow they had knotted, preventing him from being able to loosen her dress. Sansa’s impatience was growing by the second. _This dress already needs mending,_ she thought, remembering how she tore the skirt. _I’ll only need to mend it some more._

“Tear it off,” she breathed.

As soon as the words were spoken, he returned his mouth to where it belonged. Sansa could feel him smirk against her lips, the taste of it as sinister as it doubtlessly looked. Sandor’s hands found their way to the neckline of her dress and tore the bodice clean in half with one forceful tug, taking her shift along with it. Sansa could feel the chill coming from the entrance upon her bared breasts, just as she could feel the warmth coming from the lively fire beside them. The sensation was cool then hot, hot then cool, and the Hound’s hands a perfect medium, deliciously warm as they fondled her breasts. 

With a heavy grunt, he took a pace back and released his grip. For a passing second, Sansa worried that he had changed his mind again, that he’d walk right out into the winter storm with his sword and leave her there, frisky and flushed. Instead, his gray eyes flashed as they fell from her face and down to her unveiled breasts, watching as they rose and fell with each of her quick breaths. Just as she was starting to become impressed by his level of self-restraint, he took one long stride forward, kneeled onto the ground, and placed one firm pink nipple into his mouth. 

Her sharp whimper resonated inside the cave, along with the fire popping noisily again. Her hands fell onto his shoulders as he sucked on her breast, slowly trailing them towards his neck and through his long hair. Sandor Clegane felt like how a man should feel — broad and robust, and dangerous, most of all. _A threat to all, except me,_ Sansa thought, threading her hands through his hair. When he teased her nipple with his teeth, she squeaked. The Hound chuckled cruelly against her breast and returned his hands to her torn bodice to tug some more, ripping the fabric apart until the shift and dress fell onto the ground in ruins. His fingers dug into the seam of her hose, pulling them down to her ankles with her smallclothes included. Gooseprickles rose on her skin upon her sudden nakedness, and then even more as his mouth pressed against the soft auburn curls on her sex. 

“Oh!” Sansa gasped, as her knees buckled. Her lord husband had never done _that_.

Sandor quickly stood from the ground and carried her over to the bedroll, placing her down onto it with tender care. In stark contrast, he snatched her hose past her feet and spread her legs wide open. Sansa’s breasts heaved up and down as she lay bare before him, heart galloping inside her chest. “Gods,” he said, growling at the sight, “look at your pretty little cunt.”

The fire snapped loudly, angrily even. The Hound muttered a curse before lying on his stomach to place his face between her thighs. Just the sight of him hovering over her sex made her walls clench rhythmically, she could scarcely imagine what it would feel like to have his mouth touch her there. 

And she did not need to imagine much longer. He first pressed his lips on the same spot she would touch when she’d pleasure herself, the small pink nub that’d swell with her arousal and become so sensitive to the touch after her release. The novel sensation forced her back to arch, her toes to curl, and her thighs to close together around his head. Sandor assertively seized her knees and forced them apart. Her moans were accompanied by his own upon giving her a southern kiss, as if it brought him an equal satisfaction. The Hound kissed her there a second time, and then a third with his tongue, rolling it up and down her slit. Sansa wanted to watch him as he did it but found it impossible not to toss her head back against the bedroll and roll it left and right at the sensation of him devouring her. One hand left her knee and reached up for her breast, pinching her nipple in between two large fingers as he dug in deeper. His nose nuzzled against her nub, breathing in long and deep. 

“Bloody hell, this is how I want to die,” the Hound said, harsh and throaty. “Suffocated by shoving my face in your sweet cunt.”

Sansa couldn’t refrain from dissolving into laughter but was soon moaning again once his tongue resumed lapping between her folds. He varied the strokes, incorporating kisses and sucks, sending her closer and closer to her climax with each and every flick. 

And her body responded, grabbing onto one nipple while Sandor teased the other, rocking her hips slowly up and down to match his pace. Sweat began to bead between her thighs and in the small of her back, and her breath became so shallow that her vision started to blacken. Just when she thought it couldn’t get any better, the Hound slipped a finger inside. 

“Oh gods,” Sansa whimpered, rushing her hands to the top of his head. His finger slid in and out of her slowly as his mouth brushed over her curls and gnawed on her skin. “Oh!” Sansa’s legs were shaking, and her body suddenly felt cold, as if all the blood left her limbs to travel to that one spot between her legs — the same spot his tongue was fervently licking. “Oh gods, I’m about to—”

Speech left her, as did the air in her lungs. For the first time since reuniting with him, Sansa felt innocent. What he made her feel, her late lord husband never could, never did, never would. What Sandor was doing to her with his mouth and fingers and teeth and hands was foreign to her, all so unique. Her climax lingered, peaking and peaking, and at last it released, falling and falling. Sansa inhaled sharply and held her breath, blowing out her cheeks as she tried to remove herself from his grip. It was all too much, Sansa thought that she might faint. Her throat became parched as her cries of pleasure filled the cave with a sweet song — a song meant for Sandor Clegane.

He granted her mercy once another minute had passed and removed his finger, kissing her nub one more time before climbing on top of her. His hair fell over her face as he lowered himself down to kiss her, sharing with her the abundance of sweet and sticky arousal that lingered on his mouth. Driven by lust, even after her climax, Sansa grabbed the bottom of his tunic and urged him to take it off.

The Hound sat up on his knees and towered over her, smirking. “The little bird wants more.”

“The little bird wants you,” she bantered breathlessly, propping herself up on her elbows.

His smirk transitioned into something lecherous. “The little bird is the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

“And she wants to see you.” Sansa bent her leg and slipped one foot inside his tunic, rubbing her bare foot against his chest.

With his eyes fixed on her sex, Sandor lifted the tunic over his head and tossed it onto the ground. The Hound was as large without clothes as he was with them, every muscle well-defined, every flaw on his skin more beautiful than the last. And her favorite part was his hair — dark and unruly and beastly. Sansa dropped her foot from his torso and sat up. “Oh,” she whispered, softly trailing her hands over his chest. As her fingers were combing through the hair there, her eyes lifted to meet him. “You’re beautiful.”

Before Sansa could blink, she was lying on her back and his tongue was in her mouth. She could feel him struggling with his trousers, and soon after, felt something stiff and warm pressing against her thigh. Spontaneously, she reached down and grabbed for it; Sandor was so large that she couldn’t even wrap her hand around his girth. 

He grunted and dropped his face into the curve of her neck, moaning against her skin as she ran her hand up and down his shaft. Sansa had never been keen on pleasing her late husband with her mouth, especially considering he never reciprocated. But with Sandor, she was fully willing and eager to please.

Sansa nudged his shoulder with her hand. “Lie on your back.”

The Hound was eager, too, and quickly flipped over, switching their positions. As she sat on her knees beside him, Sansa looked down at his cock and wondered how it was going to fit inside her mouth, let alone her sex. It was even larger than it had felt pressing into her bottom last night, and the same dark hair that she savored on his chest surrounded the base of his shaft. 

Sansa swallowed, licked her lips, and leaned forward. 

Wrapping her hand around him the best that she could manage, Sansa swirled her tongue around the head of his cock before opening her mouth wide and lowering down. The Hound’s entire body tensed up, and every curse word known in the Common Tongue came rushing out his mouth. The response boosted her confidence, to say the least. Sansa listened to her raw instincts and stroked his cock in matched tempo with the up and down motions of her mouth. He tasted salty and musky — manly, in every way. As Sandor’s groans resounded off the walls, he placed one hand on her bottom and squeezed hard enough to make her squeal. Sansa wanted to keep tasting him, to try and make him climax with her mouth the same way he did, but was stopped once he yanked her down onto the bedroll and climbed back on top.

“Now where did a little bird like you learn to do that?” he rasped, kissing her with intense longing.

Sansa wrapped her legs around his hips and pushed her hips upward, feeling his cock tease her entrance; the anticipation drove her wild. “I’ve wanted you more than I’ve ever wanted anything,” she whispered against the side of his mouth marred by scars. 

The fire roared and blazed. Sandor looked over at it, and then at her, his eyes black with voracious lust. “Now you’ll have me,” he breathed, slowly sliding his cock inside. “And I’ll have you.”

There was a sting, a sharp initial pain, and Sansa almost felt like a maiden again. She shrieked against his shoulder as he entered her and dug her nails into the thick skin on his back. He moaned heavily into her mouth as he placed himself inside, stretching out her walls that had almost forgotten what it felt like to have a man. And even then, Sansa never had a man like him — as long as him, as thick as him. The brief affliction radiated down to her toes, and none had ever felt so sweet.

Sandor pressed his forehead against hers as he slowly pulled out, entering her again with a husky breath. Sansa opened her eyes once the pain subsided and discovered that he was squeezing his eyes shut, as if he was experiencing discomfort, too. His jaw was clenched and tense, but that didn’t stop her from kissing the firm line of his mouth. The Hound kissed her back as he drove himself into her, quick at first, but then slowed down to a rhythm that lit up her very core. While one of his hands was pushing against the bedroll to support his weight, the other grabbed her hands and pinned them above her head as he thrusted into her. Her breasts jiggling, her sex clenching, their breath mingling, his hair brushing against her face, every aspect of it was enthralling — every last one.

“Sandor,” she moaned, listening to the sounds of their lovemaking echo inside the cave. “Oh gods, Sandor.”

His grip tightened, painfully securing her wrists to the chilly ground beyond the bedroll. He thrusted twice more before suddenly pulling himself out, releasing the deepest of moans against her lips as he shot his seed onto her belly. The fluid felt warmer than the heat coming from the vibrant fire beside them, spilling all over her torso from her navel all the way up to her breasts. Although he was no longer inside her, Sansa found herself as flustered as she had been while he made love to her and embraced the sensation of him finishing on her body as she was pinned against the ground. Sansa planted gentle kisses on his scars all the while, smiling to herself as she listened to him groan and curse.

“Fuck. I’m sorry, girl," he panted. “Gods, I couldn’t last.” 

As he released her hands, Sansa reached up and brushed back the hair that was sticking to his sweaty skin. “I forgive you,” she teased. 

Sandor gave a breathy chuckle. “How do you want me to make it up to you?”

“Lay with me.”

That startled him for some reason. All at once he held her head between his hands, stared into her eyes, and gave her a single kiss. Afterwards Sandor rolled over onto his back and reached for his tunic, wiping his seed off her body before wrapping his arm around her to bring her in close. Sansa tossed one arm over his chest and snuggled into his side, yawning as drowsiness consumed her. 

She watched the fire as she drifted off to sleep. The sparks were less frequent, and the cacophony of crackling, splinting wood had quieted. The flames did not rise as high, nor did they glow as bright. And soon, the chilly wind blowing into the entrance overpowered the heat. Sansa thought about asking Sandor to stir the fire, but he’d just begun to breathe in and out, slowly and steadily. She kicked up the furs with her feet, draped it over their legs, and rested her head against his chest. As she listened to his strong, even heartbeat, she was put into a trance and suddenly thought, _I never told him that I love him._

  
Sansa looked once more at the withering flames and closed her eyes. _I’ll tell him tomorrow._


	7. Sandor IV

“Now how are you going to leave her, Clegane?”

Sandor had just finished watering the horses when he heard the all too familiar voice. The voice of death, come to life. 

He turned on his heel and spotted the immortal man honing his sword as he sat on a large moss covered stone, his red-gold hair beaming underneath a ray of late morning sun.

_Fuck. The. Gods._

“When the bloody hell did you get here?” Sandor asked. He looked around the narrow causeway in the Neck but did not see the lord’s chestnut courser. “I thought you were dead.”

“No,” Beric Dondarrion said solemnly, “you hoped I was dead.”

“What is this, your eighth life?” He glanced around again. “Where’s your priest?”

Beric pointed at the stone across from him with his sword, its sharpened edge gleaming in the light. “Sit, brother.”

 _He knows what I’ve done,_ Sandor thought. _He must have seen it in those buggering flames of his._ Resentfully, Sandor sat across from him on the jagged stone. The surface was as cold as death. 

Without lifting his eye, Beric said, “You lied.”

Sandor furtively placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Aye, I lied — on your false god.”

“You dishonored her.”

“Dishonored?” Sandor scoffed. “Is that what you want to call it?”

Beric nodded, sliding the whetstone down the edge of his steel. “That is precisely what I want to call it.”

 _He has come to kill me,_ Sandor knew. _Well I’ve killed him once. And I can kill him again._

“Very bloody well, Dondarrion — I dishonored her,” he said bluntly. “I also dishonored her this morning. And then again, five minutes ago, right inside those trees where she’s cleaning herself off. I’ll dishonor her every time we break from riding. I’ll dishonor her twice more before we go to sleep. And then on the morrow, I’ll dishonor her all over again.” Sandor pulled out his longsword an inch from its scabbard. “Now go on, tell me what you’re going to do to stop me.”

The lord regarded him for the first time since speaking and lifted his sword. Just as Sandor made to jump to his feet, Beric tucked the blade back into the leather sheath at his hip. “It is not I who must needs stop you. Thousands of northmen will eagerly seek that privilege for themselves. Not to mention the Knights of the Vale. Although, the bastard of Winterfell is like to be the one to see to it.”

A raven flew ahead. When Sandor glanced up at it, it’s wings were unmoving, and it’s eyes… 

He looked away, removed his hand from the hilt of his sword, and rubbed his forehead wearily. “That’s assuming the bastard knows in the first place, which he won’t. I won’t say a word, and neither will she.”

“You could do that,” Beric granted him. “You could take her home and stay in Winterfell, slip into her bedchamber at night when no one is looking. But then what, Clegane? What will you do once she weds Lord Umber’s son?”

Sandor chuckled with contempt. “That’s not happening, not while I’m breathing. Besides, she refuses to wed the big fucker.”

“Lords and ladies seldom marry who they wish to. Lady Sansa was not fond of Tyrion Lannister, nor was she fond of Harrold Hardyng. And yet, she married them.”

“Because she was forced to!” 

“Forced to wed Lord Tyrion, perhaps. However, her marriage to Harrold was certainly out of duty. And it is duty that will compel her to marry the Umber lad. The Lord of Light demands it.”

Sandor saw red and gritted his teeth. “Bugger your god. She can’t wed him if I kill him.”

“And what of her next suitor, and the one after him? Will you kill them, too?” Beric paused for a moment and sighed. “No, Clegane. You know as well as I that’s not feasible. Eventually you will be caught. And after you are executed, Sansa will still marry, despite your efforts.”

The thought of another man so much as looking at Sansa made him sick with rage. “You were right, Dondarrion. I did hope you were dead.”

The lord paid that no mind. “Due to your recklessness, you’ve now ensured that leaving her will be drastically more painful, not only for you, but for the lady as well.”

“I’ll never leave her!” Sandor snapped. “I said that when I couldn’t trust myself, when I thought she didn’t want me!”

“Well, it’s too late to love her from afar,” Beric declared. “We both know there’s no world in which you and her live together in Winterfell without continuing this affair...this intrigue.”

A bitter breeze blew in, causing him to shiver. “I said what I said, Dondarrion. Wedded or not, the only way I leave her is if the bastard puts my head on a block. I’ll leave her then, and not before.”

“And what will you do once the northmen learn of the two of you? What will you say to her future lord husband once he discovers you’ve been sneaking his wife into abandoned towers within his own castle and defiling her?”

“I won’t need to say anything,” Sandor said curtly. “My sword will do that for me.”

Beric gave him an unrelenting stare. “It’s not only about you, Clegane; it’s about her. Many lords know women outside of their wives. But ladies?” He shook his head, almost unnaturally slow. “We’ve both known men to beat their wives for adultery. We’ve both known men to kill them for it — intentionally and unintentionally, low and highborn alike. I fear more for Lady Sansa should the two of you be caught than I do for you.”

That thought had never crossed Sandor’s mind. But once it did, his hands clenched into tight fists. _He’s right._ _And once my head’s removed from my shoulders, there’s no stopping her giant lord husband from beating her bloody._

“Sandor,” he heard Sansa call out. Her voice was a soft, echoing whisper. But when Sandor turned around and peered out towards the trees, he did not see her. And neither did he see their horses.

Sandor jolted to his feet. “Sansa?”

“A little over a fortnight remains before you reach Winterfell,” Beric said behind him, his voice slowly being carried away with the northern wind. “Make each day count, for once the lady is home, the intrigue must end — if not for your sake, for hers.”

“Shut your bloody mouth!” Sandor barked over his shoulder, as he strode towards the trees. The sun was fading, and all at once it was pitch black inside the grove, leaving him blind. “Sansa, where are you?”

“Sandor,” she whispered again, just beside his ear. He jerked around and reached for her, but nothing was there. Sandor felt something frozen nudge his shoulder, once, twice, and then heard her bewitching voice again, trembling. “S- Sandor, I’m c- cold.”

  
  
  


He woke with a start, not knowing where he was.

There was little light as his eyes snapped open. Sandor could scarcely see the woman above him. Her eyes twinkled, even in the darkness, and her thick hair spilled over one bare shoulder and onto the side of his face. Sansa smelled of lavender, she always smelled of lavender. Once he heard water dripping off in the distance, echoing inside the vast dark space, he remembered. 

They were inside a cave, somewhere south of the Neck. And it was despicably cold. 

“Fuck,” he said hoarsely. Sandor lifted his head and looked towards the entrance, discovering that it was still night. The only light inside the cave came from the waning fire beside them, nothing but two short flames left burning atop the scorched wood. He sat up and placed his hand on Sansa’s face — she was as cold as ice. 

Sandor threw the furs off his legs and cloaked her with it. “Gods I’m sorry, little bird. I should have added more wood to the fire. I’ll go get more.”

Sansa leaned forward and kissed him with her plump, shivering lips, and all he could think was, _‘A little over a fortnight remains’._

He dressed inside the bleak cave, stiff tunic and all, and started to hand Sansa her dress until he remembered that, too. _Fuck._

“I h- have another inside m- my saddlebag,” she whispered. 

The sound of her voice quivering was physically painful. Sandor darted towards the narrow exit and headed out into the still, frigid night. The storm had moved south but left behind a thick layer of snow that nestled its way between the roots and stones outside of the cave, leaving him exasperatingly blind. Each time he placed his foot down onto the ground he’d stumble. It was naught but sheer luck that he didn’t break his ankle while crossing it.

Their horses were still where he had left them, and alive, too. He half expected them to be mauled by wolves or stolen by outlaws. As Sandor walked through the surrounding dead foliage to collect more wood, he found himself reflecting on the dismal dream he just had. It had only been a moment ago, but the details were lost, his conversation with Beric Dondarrion little more than a vague, clouded memory. 

_Even dead, that fucker haunts me_ . The words he spoke were fleeting, but some had stuck. _‘A little over a fortnight remains’,_ he remembered, the wicked phrase having been branded into his brain. _‘If not for your sake, for hers’._

A dream it might have been, the words spoken by a lord who might finally stay dead, but there was truth in what he said, something about adultery, something about a husband killing his wife. Sandor placed one hand on a tree to stabilize himself and hung his head towards the ground, feeling as if he might collapse. His sharp, shallow breaths clouded around him like a terrible fog. 

_A fortnight, a bloody fortnight,_ he thought miserably. _I'll need to tell her. I’ll need to leave her._

Sandor wanted to hack his steel into every tree in sight, but he couldn’t. Sansa was cold and growing colder by the second, as he stood there pitying himself. With one forceful push, he tore away from the tree and continued.

After collecting wood for the fire, he returned to the horses to grab an intact dress for Sansa. As he lifted open the saddlebag, a wave of nostalgia consumed him. Bundled inside, just on top, was white silk stained with blood. 

_Gods, she wasn’t lying,_ he thought, taking out his former Kingsguard cloak. _She really did keep it, even after what I did to her that night._ It made not a lick of sense to him, but he had no time to dwell on it any longer. Further down in the bag he found a dress as black as the night sky above him and returned to the cave, placing the stained cloak back inside.

He built the fire larger that time, cursing under his breath when a flame nearly licked his hand. 

_What a cruel bloody curse to have, to fear something as essential as fire_ , he thought. _But not even that can compare to the sense of dread I feel at the thought of leaving her. I need to tell her._

Once the cave fire had been resurrected, burning blindingly bright and roaring atypically loud, he turned around to face Sansa with his heart hammering against his chest as he made to recount his dream to her. He discovered her sitting atop the bedroll, furs draped over her shoulders, with her knees bent and spread apart, revealing her succulent cunt to him. 

The dream escaped him.

“Oh bloody hell,” he muttered. 

A shy smile played on her lips. Even while seducing him, Sansa was the incarnation of innocence.

Neither of them spoke as he approached her, nor when he crouched down in front of her to cup his hand over her cunt as it protruded between her thighs. _So fucking warm, so fucking wet._ He ran one finger up and down the middle before sliding it inside, becoming fiendish as he listened to the sounds escaping her. His cock was throbbing inside his trousers, begging to replace the finger that was slowly fucking her. The furs fell from her shoulders, as she tossed her head back, moaning louder, tempting harder. He stared at her slack-jawed while doing it, unbelieving of her allure. Once she moaned his name, Sandor awoke from his state of awe and tore off his clothes, pulling her bare body against his afterwards. As they kissed with a burning desire, he made to ease her down onto the bedroll, until she pushed against his chest with both hands.

Sandor pulled his face away, short of breath. “What’s wrong?”

Almost nervously, she asked, “Can I be on top?”

With every word she spoke and every breath she took, Sandor found himself falling more in love.

_So fucking innocent._

He answered with his body, picking her up by the waist and sitting her down on top of him as he laid back. Before he finished adjusting the furs underneath his head, Sansa had reached back, grabbed his cock, and guided it into her warmth. Sandor cursed so loudly that he felt her cunt squeeze around him as she startled, which only made him curse some more. Three seconds inside her and he felt like he would spill. He was no better than a green boy with his first whore. But rather than fucking a whore, he was being fucked by the most beautiful and important woman in the Known World.

It didn’t make a lick of sense — none at all.

Sandor watched as she rode him, memorizing the way her soft breasts bounced, how her lips parted, how it felt as her lavender scented hair brushed against his thighs when she tossed her head back; she was of a beauty he could not fully comprehend. Every second spent studying her left him all the more mystified. 

The world was awful, but she wasn’t. She was beautiful and pure and she wanted him. 

None of it made any sense at all.

As unfair as it was when he thought he could never have her, it was even worse once he did. Because having her would be temporary. Because having her would end. 

_Beric was right,_ Sandor thought, as he watched Sansa writhe on top of him, trying not to lose himself inside her. _I should have loved her from afar. Now how am I going to leave her? How do I give her over to another man knowing what she looks like, what she feels like, what she sounds like?_

_What the fuck have I done?_

Her cunt squeezed around him so nicely, embracing him like he was her first, hugging him like he would be her last. Sansa leaned forward and pressed her hands against his chest for leverage, forking her fingers through the hair on his chest as she circled her hips. Sandor had no choice but to shut his eyes and pray to all the false gods that he would not spill before she finished.

His brow was sweating from the nearby fire, just as Sansa started to add enchanting little words to her moans. “Oh Sandor, it feels so good,” she said, riding him faster. “I love feeling you inside me.”

Sandor moaned in pleasure and groaned in anguish. 

_This is fucking bliss. This is fucking torture._

While closing his eyes prevented him from seeing the unbearably seductive sight on top of him, his listening became sharper. Sandor could hear every breath and moan that escaped her accompanied by the sound of her wet cunt gliding over his cock as she fervently rode him. 

Sandor could feel the buildup, and he was about to release.

“Fuck!” he shouted, spanking her two porcelain cheeks. He looked at her through half-open eyes and observed that she was watching him. Once their gazes met, she squinched up her face beautifully, bit her bottom lip, and fell silent before opening her mouth and moaning her release. 

Sansa’s tantalizing song echoed off the cave walls in the late hours of the night. Upon her peak, he allowed himself to dart his eyes from her flushed face and tousled hair to her heaving breasts and then to the rich auburn curls decorating her cunt. With all possible haste, Sandor snatched her waist, pulled her off him, and grabbed his cock, stroking himself as he spilled into his hand.

The moments following were a blur; he hoped it had not only been a dream. 

Sansa nuzzled against him. In his exhausted state, as delicate fingers caressed the side of his face that had been marked by hell, more words came to him. The harrowing reminder that he had little more than a fortnight was joined by another. 

‘ _Make each day count’,_ Sandor remembered, breathing in the scent of lavender and innocence. _I bloody well will._


	8. Sansa IV

The three words fell from her lips, as achingly slow as they were sweet. “I love you.” 

Sansa took in a deep breath, allowing the earthy scent of the bogs surrounding them to fill her nostrils. When her lungs were full and set to burst with frigid air, she exhaled through pursed lips and said the words again. “I love you. Sandor Clegane, I love you.”

She had done that five times, and each time she would say the words just a little louder. But the only one who could hear her confession was the palfrey she was mounted on. Her palfrey, and perhaps the peculiar raven flying in circles overhead.

Three days had passed since departing the cave south of the Neck. Three full days and Sansa had yet to tell the Hound that last truth. _No, not the Hound,_ she reminded herself. _That’s not who he is, that’s not who I’ve fallen in love with_ _— only Sandor Clegane._

Three days and they had made love thrice that amount. Each time felt different than the last, and each time more intimate. With him, Sansa felt as much a maiden as she did a temptress. A single kittenish smile was all it took to have him pull on the reins and find a secluded spot beside the Kingsroad. Making love to him was easy, as natural to her as breathing. But confessing her love… 

The mere prospect made her feel like a young girl again, meek and afraid, knowing with a cruel certainty that the feeling would not be reciprocated. _How can I expect him to love me as I love him?_ she thought. _He may care for me, he may desire me, but love? I don’t think the Hound has ever loved anyone._ Sansa caught herself again and slapped herself on the wrist. _Not the Hound — Sandor Clegane._

Despite knowing he would not be able to return the affection, Sansa was desperate to reveal that last truth. _After we arrive at Winterfell, I'll tell him,_ she told herself. _I’ll be more courageous then, stronger once I finally return home. We can lay in my bed together, late in the night, and then I’ll tell him._

Giving up on the endeavor for the time being, she let out a long sigh and watched as Sandor trailed alongside the Kingsroad to inspect the swamps towards the east. “Sandor, I didn’t hear anything,” Sansa called out. “Can we please go?”

Traveling through the Neck proved to be as difficult and terrible as she remembered, though traveling ahorse was better than traveling in that creaking wheelhouse she had ridden in when venturing south with the late King Robert Baratheon’s retinue. She and Sandor could have been through the worst of it by then, but with every league they traveled, he would stop and linger about, claiming he heard something come from the side of the road; not once had Sansa heard a thing.

 _He distrusts the crannogmen,_ she thought. _Or perhaps he only expects more outlaws._

There had been no sign of Beric or Thoros since the ambush, but Sansa managed to keep some measure of faith they had made it out alive since they hadn’t seen the outlaws either. _They could have killed those men and continued north,_ she would guess, but Sandor, on the other hand, was far less optimistic. “They’re dead,” he would say, “dead and kissing their Lord of Light’s arse in whatever hell they’re burning in.” 

It was passing strange to her why Sandor was so spiteful towards a god he didn’t believe in. Then again, he was spiteful towards all the gods, false gods he’d call them. Even so, Sansa prayed to the old gods each night. And she would pray on his behalf, too.

As he was returning to the Kingsroad, he glanced up at the sky and frowned. “I don’t like those clouds. We should stop here for the day.”

Sansa scrunched up her brow. He had said that yesterday, too. She looked up at the sky and saw nothing but a thin overcast and a soft, trickling snow. “But it’s only a couple hours past noon.”

“Winterfell’s not going anywhere, little bird.”

 _Perhaps not, but by now word of my absence and Petyr’s death will have reached Jon,_ Sansa thought. _The sooner I get to Winterfell, the sooner I can explain to the visiting lords of the Vale what happened._

Sansa was committed to her duty — a duty that required her to return to Winterfell and serve as the Lady, the Wardeness of the North. The Vale was a separate issue, and complicated besides, an issue she would need to discuss with the lords once she arrived. Had all those who stayed behind at the Gates of the Moon during the battle against the Boltons not been in Petyr’s pockets, Sansa might have been able to send a raven to Winterfell, explaining what she had learned about his intentions. Instead, she was forced to rely on no one but herself and return home. 

_Dying from exposure is better than being forced to wed Littlefinger,_ she had told herself. And had she not chanced upon Sandor, Beric, and Thoros in the Riverlands, that may have very well been the case.

As eager as she was to reveal Littlefinger’s heinous schemes, Sansa would be a liar if she said the delays were not welcome. Each hour not spent traveling was one more hour she could spend alone with Sandor Clegane. That luxury would become scarce once they arrived at Winterfell. 

_Jon may not be able to command Sandor to leave, but he will certainly keep a watchful eye. Sandor and I will have to be careful._

Good camping ground was immensely difficult to find in the Neck, and easily accessible shelter was all but impossible. On either side of the Kingsroad, dense thickets of fungus-covered trees stood half submerged in water no more than a hundred feet away. And if that were not daunting enough, underneath the murky water was quicksand. It was a mystery to her how the crannogmen could survive in such a place, much less choose to live there. Rather than take a chance finding shelter somewhere inside the swampy terrain, they settled fifty feet from the Kingsroad and were left out in the open.

As they brushed and watered the horses, Sansa thought of a game to pass the time. A game that, for once, didn’t include her straddling him as soon as he sat down, despite her insatiable urges. 

Sansa kicked away the little of the snow that blanketed the earth and tossed the furs just on top. Once she sat cross-legged with her hands in her lap, an idea came to her mind. She looked at Sandor and smirked. “A white sword and a falling star, crossed on a lilac field.”

While removing his sword belt, Sandor looked at her and furrowed his brow. “The little bird speaks gibberish.”

She giggled. “Coat of arms, not gibberish.”

“A game, is it?” He was smiling as he sat down beside her. Sansa loved his smile. “Sounds like a game I’m like to win.”

“Septa Mordane taught me well.”

“A septa may have taught you, little bird, but killing is what taught me. Only a fool goes into battle without knowing his opponent's coat of arms.” 

She smirked and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I bet I know more than you.”

He didn’t just smile, he grinned. Sandor tucked a single lock of her hair behind her ear and then seized her chin. Almost in a whisper, he said, “First one to guess wrong has to let the other do whatever they want to them.”

Her cheeks burned like fire. Sansa stared into his eyes and nodded softly in his grip.

Once Sandor removed his hand from her chin and rested it on her thigh, the game commenced. “So, sword and star, lilac field _—_ Dayne.”

Sansa pouted. “But…you’ve never fought against House Dayne, have you?”

“Some are obvious, girl,” he said, with a squeeze to her thigh. Becoming uncomfortably aroused, Sansa considered forgetting the game and straddling him instead until he said, “An orange tree, burning on a smoky field.”

“House Marbrand,” she said, without hesitation.

A smile dangled on the corner of his lips. “Clever, little bird.”

“A white sunburst on black.”

“Karstark,” Sandor answered correctly. “Two griffins, one red, one _—”_

 _“_ House Connington.” She took a few seconds to think of a difficult one and said, “White seabirds on a blue field.”

Sandor was silent for a moment and narrowed his eyes. Just when she was about to celebrate winning the game, he said, “Hawick.”

Sansa gasped and pushed against his shoulder playfully. “How do you know that?”

“The little bird thought I was a lackwit, and the little bird thought wrong.” The tone of his voice was as sinister as the smirk lingering on his lips. “A red apple on gold.”

“House Fossoway.”

His smirk widened into a grin. “Which Fossoway?”

“What?”

“There’s two.”

Sansa started to fiddle with her skirts in her lap. Somehow she had forgotten that. “Um...House Fossoway of…”

“I’ll count down for you, little bird,” Sandor said, with obvious mischief. “Three.”

_Oh no, not this again. I can’t lose at my own game!_

“Two.”

_Gods, what is it? Fossoway of...Cider Hall? Or is it New Barrel?_

“One _—”_

“New Barrel!” Sansa blurted out. “House Fossoway of New Barrel.”

His gray eyes flashed. “Cider Hall.”

 _Seven hells,_ she thought, but all she could say under his menacing scrutiny was, “Oh.”

Quicker than the wintry breeze swirling the falling flakes of snow, Sandor had her lying on her back underneath him. Gooseprickles rose on her skin as his teeth grazed over the pulse in her neck, making her feel something dangerous.

“Oh!” she shrieked as he bit down.

“Gods, I love when you say that,” he growled. “Since I won your little game, I can do whatever I want to you. And do you know what I want, little bird? I want to fuck you right here in broad daylight.” 

Sansa closed her eyes and moaned. “But what if someone sees?” 

Sandor flipped her over, lifted up her skirts, and slid her hose down just enough to bare her bottom. “No one will see.”

Upon the sudden chill, Sansa felt her nipples stiffen against the earth as she laid flat on the ground. A second later, he lowered himself on top of her and slid his cock inside her sex, tormentingly slow. Sansa clutched the furs with her hands and whimpered with impatience. 

He teased her a little longer before pressing her further into the ground and filling her with his length. She gasped at the sensation, savoring how large he felt as she was pinned underneath him. 

Sandor placed his face just beside hers and released a gravelly moan. “I bloody love…” Her heart sank as he paused to take in deep breath, waiting for him to finish the tantalizing thought, “...this.”

 **_This_ ** _, not me._ The let down nearly made her cry.

Upon draping her hair over one shoulder, Sandor returned his mouth to the curve of her neck. Her skin was becoming raw there, and it certainly would be bruised. But they were bruises she’d bear proudly, knowing they were born from his desire. Sansa would miss the affection once they returned to Winterfell. _I’ll never be able to wear his tokens of endearment in the presence of others,_ she thought. _At least,_ _not on my neck…_

As he sank his teeth into her skin, she shrieked. “Oh, Sandor!”

“Fuck,” he grunted, pounding into her fiercer. “Scream my name again, girl.”

In the midst of her moaning, she did, loud and brazen. Sandor stroked deeper and harder in response, stealing the breath from her each time. Nothing else mattered to her in that moment, nothing besides Sandor Clegane. Sansa wished the freedom she felt just then wouldn’t be taken away, knowing she’d never be able to cry out his name once they were home.

 _How sweet it would be if I could love him publicly,_ she thought, near the height of her rapture. _How sweet it would be if I could marry him._

The sounds of their lovemaking drowned out all else, even her poetic thoughts. Sansa turned her head to the side and found his mouth with her own, briefly silencing their moans and screams as they kissed. And in that brief, relative silence, Sansa heard Sandor’s horse becoming furious and wild. 

Just as Sandor abruptly pulled his mouth away, a voice spoke out. It was the voice of someone Sansa thought might be dead, the voice of a girl she knew a lifetime ago.

“Take your cock out of my sister or I’ll cut your throat.”


	9. Sandor V

A raven loomed overhead, circling and watching, reminding him of his dream and the words the dead lord spoke.

 _I was supposed to have a little over a fortnight alone with her,_ Sandor thought dismally, _not three days._

Just when he was two strokes away from coating Sansa’s arse with his seed, the wolf bitch had returned out of thin air, frowning, ahorse, and wielding her little sword.

“Take. It. Out.” Arya Stark repeated.

Had the girl not been Sansa’s own blood, Sandor would have snatched the dagger from his sword belt and flung it into her eye. But, to his dismay, she _was_ Sansa’s blood — her bloody little sister. Resentfully and cursing under his breath, he removed himself from Sansa’s warm cunt and pulled up his trousers.

Even once he was no longer pinning her to the ground, Sansa laid motionless on her stomach, clearly awestruck. Sandor sat there unable to look away from her bare arse, becoming mesmerized by the way the gentle snowflakes sprinkled on top of her plump cheeks. He shifted his eyes a little further down and admired the glistening pink slit visible between her thighs. Sandor clenched his jaw and balled his hands into fists, forcing himself to ignore the way it was begging to be fucked.

He wondered if he’d ever see Sansa like that again. _Three days was all I had. Three bloody days._ The more he thought about it, the worse his rage became. _These cruel gods let me have a taste of happiness and then send the sister to take it all away._

Sandor could only laugh, raw, rasping, and harsh — and curse. He could curse, too. So that’s what he did. He laughed and cursed, cursed and laughed, and watched the child who refused to end his suffering years ago dismount her horse.

_Fuck the gods._

Suddenly waking from her shock, Sansa pushed herself up, pulled up her hose, and stood from the ground. “Oh gods…Arya.”

The child walked closer and sheathed her sword, scowling at him all the while. “Hello, sister.”

“Oh gods,” Sansa said again, approaching her sister warily, as if she was afraid she might only be a ghost. 

Once the Stark girls were close enough, they both reached out and pulled the other into an embrace, hugging for what would have been the first time in three years. It would have been a touching moment to witness, even for a man like him, had Arya not turned her head to glower at him.

“I can’t believe you’re really here,” Sansa sniffled into her shoulder. “Gods be good, I can’t believe it.”

Sandor stood up and glared right back at the vicious child. “Neither can I.”

As their embrace ended, Arya took a step back and looked Sansa up and down. “Did the Hound just rape you?”

“No!” Sansa blurted, before quickly regaining her composure. “No, he would never do that. I lay with him, willingly.”

Her sister grimaced, visibly unconvinced. _She remembers what I said,_ Sandor thought, _when I begged her to kill me, when I told her I should have fucked Sansa bloody._

“I’ll kill him if he did,” Arya promised, tapping the pommel of her sword.

Sandor had to refrain himself from stomping over there to smack her on the back of the head.

“He didn’t. I swear it on the old gods. I swear it on mother and father’s bones.”

Arya raised an eyebrow and said, “Seven hells, Sansa. You’re really spreading your legs for the _Hound_?”

Sansa took Arya's hand in her own. “You can’t tell—” 

“—Jon?” she cut in, with a deadpan expression.

“Anyone at all.” When Arya didn’t respond, she said, “Please!”

Arya’s lips twisted in scorn as she eyed him. “I’ll think about it.”

Sansa started to say something but fell quiet, appearing disconcertingly anxious. He wondered what she was thinking. Was she embarrassed? Ashamed? Disgusted with herself? Sansa may have been eager to give her body to him, but that was when it was a secret, that was when no one knew.

 _And now, three days later, the secret is out._ Sandor looked at the clouded sky and chuckled derisively. “Fuck the gods!”

“What’s the Hound’s problem?”

“Arya, where have you been?” asked Sansa. “No one has seen you for years.”

“I’ll explain,” she said, turning towards her horse, “while we ride home.”

Sansa glanced over her shoulder at him, with a familiar look in those perfect blue eyes — pity. _The same look Beric used to give me; a look more telling than words. She knows it's over, too,_ Sandor thought, _after three bloody days._

They were mounted and northbound within five minutes. The days of riding for a few hours and coming up with an excuse to make their travels last longer were dead and gone. He knew that Sansa had started to grow suspicious of him, especially considering the weather had been favorable the past few days. But he’d risk looking suspicious if it meant he could drag out their time together a little longer. Besides he needed to, because he had yet to tell her that he loved her, he had yet to tell her that he would need to leave her, and it’d take more than a fortnight to grow the bollocks to do that.

The Kingsroad was barely wide enough for the three of them to ride side-by-side. Sansa rode in the center with her sister to her left and Sandor to her right. Within minutes, Arya started to veer towards the middle so that Sansa’s palfrey would adjust and push him off the road. And each time she did it, Arya would stifle a smug smile.

_Two years later, and this girl has only become a bigger pain in my arse._

Sandor kept to himself while the sisters discussed the past three horrific years — King’s Landing, the Red Wedding, Sansa’s marriage to the Imp, Sansa’s marriage to the Eyrie lord, and even about how she killed Littlefinger. Arya simply couldn’t believe that last part. 

When Sansa told her about Beric and Thoros and how they lost them during the ambush, Arya said she had not seen them on the Kingsroad, nor had she seen the outlaws. 

_They really did die,_ he thought. _Well, they were godly men. Death will serve them better than living ever did._

According to the she-wolf, she had sailed to Braavos after she had left him for dead and trained with a religious society of assassins called the Faceless Men. Sansa was left pale-faced and speechless, whereas Sandor could only shake his head and laugh. 

_How in the seven hells can these two be sisters?_ he wondered. _One is a woman fit to be a queen, and the other is a merciless killer. Nothing makes a lick of sense anymore._

The hours passed brutally slow, like waiting for a man to bleed out after one shallow puncture to the thigh. When they breaked from riding, no longer could he find a fitting spot to lift up Sansa’s skirts and eat her cunt or fuck her till she cried. Instead, he was left resting one hand on the hilt of his sword every time he took a piss, anticipating the angry child to pounce on him at any given moment.

_Three days of happiness, and now a fortnight like this._

They rode until dusk, and they might have ridden all night had Sansa not persuaded Arya to stop and rest. _It’s no wonder she caught up with us,_ Sandor thought. _While the little bird and I have been fucking all across the Neck, this one has been riding her horse into the ground._

The only positive aspect of traveling many hours was reaching the northern half of the Neck where the terrain was no longer completely covered in the black bog. To the west were still swamps, but to the east the earth was hard-packed and scattered with hills. They settled atop one of the taller hills in the land, its apex partially shielded from sight by the large stones that rested there. The snow had yet to fall that evening, the breeze remained gentle, and the view from the hill facing the vast northern expanse was undeniably quaint. It would have been an apt setting to tell Sansa that last truth, the one he couldn’t utter inside the cave, the one he couldn’t utter while taking her in the snow that morning. 

_If only that bloody sister of hers wasn’t here._

After they ate beside the campfire, Sandor’s heart nearly leapt from his chest when Sansa laid down and placed her head in his lap. Rather than pull out his cock and place it into her mouth like she might have done had they been alone, she draped the furs over herself, snuggled against his thigh, and closed her eyes to find sleep. 

Sandor couldn’t fathom how much he loved her. He placed his hand on her head and softly combed his fingers through her lavender scented hair. _Another man will have this someday, and on that day…_ His macabre thought was interrupted by the sound of strone scraping against steel. When Sandor looked up, he found the sister scowling at him from across the fire as she sharpened her dagger.

After a few minutes had passed, Sansa was sound asleep, breathing soft and steady in his lap. A wolf howled, somewhere in the distance, and Arya seemed to take that as a sign to kill the blissful silence and start pestering him. 

“How old are you now?” she asked. “Forty?”

Sandor snorted. “Says the bloody ten year old.”

“I’m three-and-ten,” she hissed.

“You’re still as small as you were the last time I saw you.”

“So? Being small means I’m fast, which helps me kill big shits like you.”

He sagged against the stone behind him, being careful not to wake Sansa. “Gods, I’d cut off one foot to ship you back to Braavos.”

Twirling her freshly edged dagger between her fingers, Arya said, “You look tired. Maybe you should close your eyes.”

“Why? So you can shove your _Needle_ in me two years too late? Bugger that. If I have to tie you in the bedroll again before I sleep, I will.” 

Once she did nothing besides huff, Sandor returned to brushing Sansa’s hair down her back. No matter how many days he spent with her, he would never grow accustomed to her beauty. One week, a year, twenty full lives, none would be enough to fully appreciate her. Everything good in the world was right there in his lap, sleeping peacefully and comfortably. After he adjusted the furs to cover her shoulders, Sansa fidgeted and turned her head with her mouth resting just beside his confined cock. The sight and sensation made him become as hard as steel.

Interrupting his crude thoughts, Arya said, “I wonder if Jon will feed you to Ghost once I tell him.”

“I wonder if you’ll shut your fucking mouth.”

“Even if I decide not to tell him, he’ll make Sansa turn you away. Or at least I hope so…I don’t want you in Winterfell.”

Studying Sansa’s face to ensure that she was still asleep, he quietly said, “I won’t be in Winterfell for long.”

Arya’s frown fell. That seemed to take her by surprise. “Why not?”

“Because I can’t stay.”

“Why?” she probed. “Because you’re too craven?”

Sandor eyed her cautiously. “No. Now shut your bloody mouth so I can get some sleep. If I hear you move, if you come at me with that dagger, I’ll ride out to the swamps, toss your Needle over, and let the crannogmen fuck themselves with it.” 

When she did nothing besides stare at him, Sandor leaned back against the bitterly cold stone and closed his eyes. The hand he had resting on Sansa’s back rose and fell with her steady breaths, gradually lulling him to sleep. 

Then, suddenly, he was half in a dream. He could hear the crackling of the campfire and the howling of wolves in the distance, but all he could see was Sansa sitting in the snow, twirling her hair. They were no longer in the Neck, but somewhere else. _Winterfell,_ he realized, observing the dark, tall castle walls surrounding them and the monstrous heart tree behind her. She looked at him and smiled warmly, as if she had been expecting him. When he tried to walk forward, he could not move. When he tried to speak, he could not talk. All Sandor could do was stand there, frozen in place, and watch as she began to loosen the laces on her dress. 

_That’s it, girl,_ he wanted to say. _Let me see those pretty teats._ Sansa giggled, as if she could read his mind. That’s when he thought, _I love you, little bird._ Her eyes grew wide and her lips parted open, but her hands continued to loosen her dress. _Don’t wed Lord Umber,_ he begged in silence. _Gods, I can’t leave you. I love you._

Sansa dropped her eyes. Just as she was about to pull out her breasts, he heard that vexing little voice, and Sansa Stark and the heart tree and Winterfell faded away, leaving him alone in total darkness.

“Why are you going to leave?”

“Because I can’t stay,” he groggily mumbled.

“Because you’re a bitch?”

Sandor’s eyes shot wide open. “Careful, girl.”

“Why can’t you stay?” Arya asked again, frustration wrinkling her brow. 

“Shut your mouth.”

“Why?” she persisted. “Why? Why? Why? Why?....”

Before the relentless twit would wake up Sansa, he said in a gruff whisper, “Because she’s going to wed a buggering Umber.”

Arya’s mouth gaped open. She didn’t look like an assassin then, only a girl of three-and-ten. “Which Umber?”

“I don’t bloody know,” he spat. “Why don’t you ask the flames? Perhaps Beric and Thoros will show you from whatever hell they’re burning in.”

Although he was mocking her, she took what he said quite literally and stared into the flames. A moment passed before she lifted up her eyes, squinting. “Why do you care who she marries?”

“You saw earlier today why I care.”

“No, I saw you shoving your cock into my sister. I was friends with enough whores in Braavos to know that doesn’t mean a man cares for a woman.”

Sandor rubbed a hand over his face, exasperated. “Fuck the gods.”

“You know, the Umbers are _huge_.”

“I know that,” he grumbled.

“The Greatjon is even bigger than you.” Arya looked innocent enough when she said it, but Sandor knew the girl well enough to know she was trying to provoke him. “It’s going to hurt when she births an Umber.”

That triggered him to remember a dream, the one where Sansa was on all fours in the snow, heavily pregnant, with the shadowed face… “That’s enough,” Sandor growled, at his thoughts and Arya alike.

More silence passed, and then she said, “It’ll even hurt for her to conceive one.”

“Shut your fucking mouth!”

Sansa startled awake and gasped, blinking up at him with fear in her sapphire eyes. “What— what’s happening?”

“We were talking about a giant’s cock,” Arya answered, casually.

“One more word out of you and that sword sees the buggering swamps!”

Sansa shielded her eyes away from the firelight. “Sandor, what—”

“I’m sorry I woke you, little bird,” he exhaled, running his hand up and down her back. “Go to sleep.”

And she did. Within a minute, Sansa had nuzzled her head back into his lap and curled up underneath the furs, returning to sleep.

Shortly after, the tyrannical child sitting across from him finally laid down. Just as he was sighing with relief, Arya whispered, “Now I know why you care.” She gave him one last look before closing her eyes, a look that was neither hateful nor disgusted. “You _love_ Sansa.”

Sandor could only sit there in silence and stare at the woman beneath him, unable to lie, unable to deny it. It was becoming alarmingly obvious how he felt about her, dangerously so. _First, Beric guessed correctly, and now, the sister notices. I could never stay in Winterfell, not without that bastard realizing, not without that Umber fucker hurting her someday for it._

Sandor sighed, wallowing in self pity. _Fuck the gods._

“I won’t tell anyone,” Arya suddenly decided, speaking in a whisper. “I won’t even tell Jon.” And then she rolled over to go to sleep.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“Five minutes!” the she-wolf called out, as she descended the hill at the break of dawn. “I’ll wait five minutes and not a second longer!”

Sandor wouldn’t need five minutes, he’d only need one. Sansa’s cunt was ready for him, as soaking wet as he was hard. It had not even been a full day without having one another and yet they were both desperate for the other’s touch. So desperate, that Sansa had tried to furtively ride him while her sister was still asleep. Arya had woken up at the first utterance of a moan and jumped up from the ground. He expected her to wield her little sword and stick it through his throat, but instead, she only curled her lips with disgust and stormed off.

 _We may not be alone again,_ Sandor thought, _but I can still make each day count before I leave her_ — _I must._

He wrapped his hands around Sansa’s waist and lifted her up and down, savoring the way her cunt embraced his length. With one hand, he yanked down the bodice of her dress until her breasts spilled over the top and took her waist once again, thrusting into her with vigor, as if he had not had her in years. Sansa moaned shamelessly, beautifully, and it was all for him. 

_It’ll never make any sense._

When he felt himself about to spill, Sandor held his breath and slowed his pace, letting Sansa take over. She bounced on his cock with an unparalleled friskiness that morning and tossed her head back, clenching around him as she always did once she was obtaining her peak pleasure. 

Sandor lifted her off him at the last possible second and spent himself onto her auburn curls with sporadic groans. He loved the way his seed looked outside her cunt, how it’d glisten and soak in her hair.

 _If only I didn’t need to pull out at all,_ he thought, as he came down from his release. _If only…_

Sansa leaned down and kissed him afterwards, placing her mouth just beside his ear. “Sandor, I—”

“You can fuck later!” Arya shouted, running back into the campsite. “I saw riders!”

“Bloody hell, girl!” Sandor quickly reached down and lifted up his trousers. “How many?”

“Twenty, maybe.”

He sat up and handed Sansa her smallclothes. “Outlaws?”

“No,” Arya said, in a curious manner. “They’re carrying a standard...they’re coming from the north.”

“Whose standard is it?” Sansa asked, still breathless.

“I couldn’t see….they were too far.”

Sandor could smell the lie. He rose from the ground and marched over to peer out beside the largest of the stones.

Coming from the north, he observed the standard, he knew the standard, he’d recognize that standard coming from a hundred leagues away. 

“Little bird,” Sandor said, like it was his dying breath.

Sansa looked up at him anxiously as she laced her boots. “Whose standard?” she asked. “What is the coat of arms?”

He fell back against the stone and looked up at the sky. Disbelief, rage, turmoil, it all consumed him. But he couldn’t laugh with disdain, nor could he curse the gods and hack his sword into a tree and cry. He couldn’t do anything when all he wanted to do was die.

_I was supposed to have a fortnight…_

“A giant,” he said, “roaring on a red field.”


	10. Sansa V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little note: Gareth Umber is not an actual character from the books. The Greatjon *did* have other sons aside from Smalljon Umber, but we never learn their names. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The lord’s feet landed heavily against the ground like two great boulders, imprinting the snow-covered earth as he dismounted from one of the largest coursers she had ever seen.

Her attention was briefly distracted by a piercing squawk. She looked overhead and watched as a raven flew past in the grey morning sky; Sansa envied its freedom.

As her eyes returned to the man swaggering towards her, all she could think about were the words Sandor Clegane spoke to her inside that cave. 

_‘I hear you’re to wed an Umber.’_

Each step he took was heftier than the last. Even so, he wasn’t the largest man she’d ever seen. Sandor’s brother, Gregor, had been taller and heavier still. And from what Sansa remembered, neither was he as tall as his father, the Greatjon. He was, however, an inch or two taller than Sandor, and broader, too. With his long dark-brown hair, thick beard, and heavy fur coat, he looked every inch a northern lord, an Umber.

 _Beric and Thoros were wrong,_ she thought, on the precipice of speaking with the man. _I’ll not wed him — not ever._

The lord stopped just in front of her. He even smelled of the north, like earth and ale and blood. 

“Lady Sansa,” he greeted. His voice was as large and husky as he was.

Remembering her courtesies, Sansa offered her hand to him. It had been a long while since she met a northern lord and had forgotten they were often not as chivalrous as southern lords. 

_Not all northern lords are like my late lord father,_ she knew. _My father was the exception, not the rule._

Nevertheless, the Umber lord accepted it all the same with his bear paw of a hand, nearly swallowing her fingers as he placed them onto his dry lips to give her a kiss. Nothing ever felt more unnatural. Nothing ever felt more wrong.

The tenseness beside her was loud and unsettling, coming from a stone faced Sandor Clegane. 

“My lord,” said Sansa.

“You were a child last I visited Winterfell,” he remarked, with his grip still firm on her hand. “And you,” the lord looked at Arya, “you were no older than a babe. Although, you appear to be just as small.”

Sansa knew it was a jape, but Arya didn’t see it that way and loudly huffed while folding her arms.

Before her sister might respond audaciously, Sansa said, “I remember your father, but I’m afraid I don’t recall having had the pleasure of meeting you.”

“Gareth Umber. Lord Umber of the Last Hearth, now.”

 _The Greatjon’s eldest living son ever since Smalljon Umber died. And if he’s_ **_the_ ** _lord…_

“Lord Umber.” Sansa softly pulled her hand out of his, though she’d sooner tear it away and give it to Sandor instead. “Forgive me, I was not aware of your father’s passing.”

“Bloody Freys,” Gareth Umber cursed. “My father was never the same after being held captive at the Twins. Northmen don’t fare well south of the Neck. He was half starved and half mad by the time he was brought back to us; I knew his days were numbered. We can only thank the old gods that he died in the North where he belonged.”

Sansa found it odd she had never heard of that, not from the maester in the Vale, nor from Petyr. “When did he pass?”

“The day your brother told us that you were missing,” he said, eyeing Sandor threateningly. “My father’s dying wish was to come save you.”

 _Save me or wed me?_ she thought, but dared not ask aloud. _The dreaded parchment from the Vale must have reached Jon, stating that I killed a man._ Sansa wondered what all Lord Umber knew. “How did you _—_ ”

“You’re the Lannister’s dog,” Gareth stated, as he continued to scrutinize Sandor.

She winced and said a silent prayer that he would not lose his temper.

“You’re a long way from your masters,” one of the accompanying northmen added.

“I don’t serve the bloody Lannisters,” Sandor bit back. “I haven’t served them for years.”

“I heard you turned craven,” another chimed in, stirring laughter amongst the others.

“Quiet!” the lord commanded his men. He took one step closer to Sandor and sized him up. “What are you doing with Ned Stark’s daughters?”

“Taking them home.”

Gareth set his hands on his hips, the one an inch away from the greatsword he wore at his side. “Is that _all_ you’re doing?”

“Aye,” Sandor lied. 

When the lord looked at her for confirmation, Arya spoke out. “If the Hound tried to touch one of us, I would have killed him.”

The northmen erupted with laughter, Gareth’s the loudest of all. “A fierce child!” he exclaimed, mussing up her hair. “That’s that fine northern blood in you, little lady.”

Arya swatted his hand away, which only made the men laugh harder.

Once the comedic relief was over, Gareth regarded Sandor and said, “You’re bold to come north, dog. How many of our men did you kill for that little bastard you protected?”

“You’re a lord,” Sandor began, with venom in his voice, “you understand the concept of duty.”

“Aye, and I understand that it’s my duty to bring back the lady and…” He trailed off, glancing over his shoulder towards the nearest mounted northman. “What else did the bastard say to do?”

Almost proudly, the man said, “Kill who you must to do so.”

“Kill who I must to do so,” Gareth repeated, with a hauntingly calm demeanor.

The words made Sansa shiver. _I cannot let this escalate any further._ “Were it not for him, my lord, I would be dead.”

“All men must answer for their crimes, my lady. The north remembers.”

“And he will answer for them,” she lied. “But he will be judged fairly and with honor. Lord Umber, your family has sworn fealty to House Stark. Jon may be my elder brother, but I am the Lady of Winterfell and I will not have Sandor Clegane harmed.”

Gareth regarded him warily for what seemed like an eternity before letting his hand fall from the hilt of his sword. “If the Lady wants a dog, then she shall have one.”

Sansa stifled a relief sigh. _A small victory, but will this hollow civility last a fortnight?_

Lord Umber helped her mount her palfrey that morning. Sansa wished she had stayed on that hill. _They would have seen us anyway,_ she told herself. _Hiding would have only made us appear suspicious. What Wardeness hides from her own men with a Clegane?_

Sandor had not said a word to her since describing House Umber’s coat of arms. Each time she tried to steal a glance over her shoulder at him as they rode, he’d tense up and look away. At least he was not alone. Arya rode beside him and muttered something or another as they made their way north.

 _Gods, I was so close,_ Sansa thought, as she recalled making love to Sandor that morning. _I almost told him that last truth. Had Arya not barged in…_

Perhaps that was unfair. Perhaps even if her sister had not interrupted that moment, her courage would have fled and left her unable to speak that final truth. Sansa had her chance, her last chance until Winterfell, and she let it slip away.

_Now our freedom is much like my innocence — a memory._

The weather matched her mood, bitter and bleak. The sun was trapped behind the clouds, the snow fell like the tears Sansa wished she could weep, and the wind hit her face like how Joffrey’s Kingsguard used to as she rode at the head of the column beside the man she was prophesied to marry.

_No, I’ll not wed him, not ever._

“Your brother is eager to see you,” Gareth Umber said, breaking the silence.

“I look forward to seeing him as well. How is Jon?”

“It’s not Jon who I speak of, but Brandon.”

Sansa snapped her head in his direction, clutching tightly onto the reins once she suddenly became faint. “Bran? He’s alive?”

“Arrived a fortnight ago with a young woman _—_ Howland Reed’s own daughter.”

She sat frozen in her saddle, unsure of what she wanted to ask first. “And Rickon? What of Rickon?”

He inhaled a sharp breath. During his release, he said, “Skagos.”

“ _Skagos_ ?” Sansa repeated with horror. _He might as well be in Old Valyria or sailing the Shivering Sea._

“Believe me, my lady, we all damn near pissed ourselves laughing once your brother told us that, begging your pardons. But now that we’ve found you, the boy may very well be on that bloody island.”

“I don’t understand,” she thought out loud.

“Brandon claims to see things. The Others take me if I know how. As soon as he arrived, he told us you were traveling alone in the Vale. Jon thought the poor boy was delusional _—_ we all did _—_ until a raven arrived the next day.” Gareth inched his courser over until his leg touched her own, leaning over in his saddle to whisper into her ear. “We all would have done the same thing.”

Sansa squirmed in her saddle, from the closeness and implication alike. _They do know._

“I- I have the parchments,” she found herself stammering. “Lord Baelish, he meant to _—_ ”

He leaned back in his saddle and roared with boisterous laughter. “You don’t owe me an explanation, my lady. Littlefinger was no friend of ours. Half those Vale lords taking up space in Winterfell speak ill of him. No one will grieve for Littlefinger, they’ll only grieve for his gold.”

That response was reassuring, if anything. Not that Sansa expected to be sent to the Silent Sisters for her unintentional murderous act, but neither did she expect all those who learned of it to take it so light heartedly. Becoming less anxious regarding the matter, Sansa feigned a small smile.

That proved to be a mistake once she watched him sit up straighter with a proud gaze. “Tell me how you chanced upon this dog you wish to keep and your sister. Your brother made no mention of them.”

Sansa recounted to him the tale of her journey thus far, fibbing where she needed to and extracting what she must. Much like Arya, neither he nor his men had seen Beric or Thoros while traveling south. That’s when it became almost certain. _Sandor was right; they didn’t survive the ambush,_ she thought. That was as saddening as it was infuriating. _Why would their god grant them a vision of who I marry, a man who I refuse to wed under any circumstances, but not show them the dangers that lie ahead?_ She’d never understand, and now, she’d never be able to ask.

While explaining her travels, Sansa did her best to speak highly of Sandor without coming across as suspiciously fond of him. “He’s kinder than he lets on, and he’s done well to protect me and my sister,” she had explained to the lord, none of which was a lie. “He spent years seeking absolution on the Quiet Isle. To my knowledge, he hasn’t killed a man since.”

“The north remembers,” was all Gareth had to say about that. 

Perhaps she didn’t change his mind about him, but she just might be able to prevent him from making Sandor answer for his past crimes until they reach Winterfell. Once home and serving as the Lady, Sansa herself would absolve him of what he had done.

_Northmen do not forgive easily, but with the prospect of war in the north and south alike, my men ought to be grateful to have Sandor Clegane by their side. He just might save their life._

They rode until the weather permitted it no longer. The surging storm was not the worst she had seen, but it kept them from riding until dusk. Not once had she been able to speak to Sandor, nor even to her sister. The hours had been spent listening to stories of Robb’s valiant efforts, the northern lords’ desire to be independent once again, and the preparations taking place as the dead marched south while Cersei Lannister still sat on the Iron Throne. While some of the news had been enlightening, much of it had been skewed in such a way for Gareth Umber to boast about himself. 

Sansa had no idea how she would survive a fortnight riding by his side. _But if I ride beside Sandor, I may stir suspicion. And if that happens…_

She had no choice _—_ none at all.

The further north they traveled, departing the Neck, the better camping grounds they found. The retinue of northmen had brought canvas to build a tent, only to be built for Sansa’s comfort should they find her. 

_I’d rather sleep in six feet of snow if that means I can sleep next to Sandor._

The winds were strong, but not quite violent enough to prevent the men from building the tent, nor from building several campfires scattered about the grounds beside the Kingsroad. Lord Umber had one of his men retrieve Arya who was still speaking with Sandor, but the man came back shortly after saying that she refused to sleep in a “stupid tent”. That would have made Sansa laugh had she not been so downhearted.

The inside of the tent was spacious and dimly lit by a single tallow candle resting atop a crate. The earth underneath had been cleared of snow and covered with cloth secured to the ground, and Sansa spotted several furs and pillows piled to one side. The canvas fluttered loudly with the wind, she’d never find sleep; Sansa wondered how something meant to be so comforting could be so terrible. 

_If Sandor was with me, it wouldn’t be terrible at all,_ she thought, as she removed her cloak. _But this is only temporary. Things will be different once we are in Winterfell._

Sansa startled when she heard someone behind her, finding herself speechless once she discovered Gareth Umber ducking his head to enter the tent. Most lords would not dare enter a lady’s tent without her consent. But then again, the Umbers were not known for their decorum. Not only did he enter without hesitancy, but he closed the flap behind him afterwards.

There was a hard, quick pulse in her throat. Sansa looked down and slowly wrung her hands together as he kneeled down beside her. 

“Well, it’s not the castle you deserve, my lady,” he said, while spreading the furs out onto the ground, “but you won’t freeze.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Rest assured, we’ll have you home within a fortnight. You’ll have your brothers, your sister, your home...” Gareth rose from the ground and turned to face her inside the dusky tent. “And perhaps a new husband, in due course. Not a lord from the Westerlands, neither a lord from the Vale, but a northern lord fit for a northern lady.”

Her breath grew thin and ragged. _‘I hear you’re to wed an Umber.’_

No matter if her husbands disappeared or died, there would always be another awaiting his turn. _It will be like this forever and ever,_ she knew, _even once my youth is gone. These lords will continue to vie for my hand, all because of my claim._

Sansa stood there, nonplussed, unbelieving of his forward nature. Although he was not the first man to approach her so boldly, it had not even been a full day before the sickening insinuation fell from his lips. She wanted to reject his brazen proposal right there, perhaps even slap him for his lack of couth, but feared what he might do out of spite, knowing it might mean Sandor’s life. 

_The Umbers have a reputation of being brutes and brigands,_ Sansa remembered. _And this one has proven it to be true. I’d be a fool to disrespect a man so proud. Once I’m in Winterfell, I’ll have more power. Once I’m in Winterfell, I’ll be able to keep Sandor safe._

Sansa kept her features deceptively composed and nodded the once, playing the part of the courteous little lady for the sake of the man she loved. 

With one heavy step, Gareth moved in closer _—_ suspiciously close. Sansa immediately closed her eyes once she thought he meant to steal a kiss, praying that he had a shred of honor and would not seek more. 

_How is this a man who fought and nearly died for Robb?_ she wondered, despite the answer being obvious. _Robb was a man. Robb was his King. But me, I’m nothing but a woman to him, a noble woman with a title._

Before she was subjected to the unwanted affection, someone tapped against the canvas and cleared their throat. 

“Umber,” the voice of Sandor Clegane called out. Sansa’s eyes flew open and her heart fluttered inside her chest. “The child changed her mind. She wants to sleep with her sister.”

 _Thank the gods,_ she thought, wanting to run out of the tent and wrap her arms around Sandor and never let go. 

The lord had leaned down during the brief period her eyes were closed. Upon the welcome interruption, he stood taller and released a slow exhale. “Bring her in, Hound.” 

_Hound — that’s better than dog._

Before he might think of kissing her hand before parting, Sansa took a step back and made herself busy by straightening out her skirts. 

“Sleep well, my lady,” Gareth bidded, and then turned on his heel to exit. 

When the flap to the tent opened, the shifting orange-yellow light coming from the campfires outside washed over her face, much like the sun at the break of dawn. Sandor Clegane was little more than a half-shadowed silhouette as he stood outside, but Sansa could see his eyes glinting in the soft candlelight as he looked into the tent.

For an ephemeral moment, the two men were in front of her at the entrance, two massive figures standing side-by-side. Their strength and physicality might have been similar, but the expressions they wore, illuminated by that single tallow candle, could not have been more different. Sansa read expressions well, it’s how she learned who the liars were, it’s how she would decipher a person’s true feelings and motives. And in those few fleeting seconds, the larger of the men looked at her like all the rest, eyes glowing with raw lust and presumed triumph, whereas the other, the man she loved, stared at her with an expression far more complex. An expression that was equal parts incensed as it was tormented, as equally animated as it was stoic. He used to look at Joffrey that way and Boros Blount and Meryn Trant. It was a hateful look, a look that could kill.

But was his contempt meant for Lord Umber, or was it meant for her?

 _I love you,_ she told him in silence, desperately wishing he could hear her thoughts. _I’ll never wed him, no matter what Beric and Thoros saw. I want you. I’d marry you, if you could ever love me back._

 _For the love of all the gods,_ she wanted to beg as he turned away, _don’t you think about leaving me._

The flap closed, the wind shook the tent, and Sansa was left alone to stare at the lonesome candle flame.

She plopped down onto the furs and punched the pillow beside her. The lashing out was satisfying. She did it again, harder, and then again with all her might. By the time Arya walked inside, she was flushed and breathless with hot tears streaming down her cheeks. Sansa dropped her face into her hands in a futile attempt to muffle her inexorable sobs. 

One small arm wrapped itself around her shoulders and held her close.

“When I was nine, I used to slip from my bedchamber and sneak into the kitchens at night,” Arya confessed. “Mother and father never caught me, neither did the household guards and staff. If I timed it right, I could be in there for an hour before anyone might notice. Gage used to yell at the serving girls when he saw that food was missing the next morning, but it was me the whole time. I sort of feel bad about it now. Sort of.”

After taking in a long, shuddering breath, Sansa said, “Forgive me, sister, but I don’t really care to hear about your stealthy tricks right now.”

“Well, you should.”

In a fit of gloom, she dropped her hands into her lap and looked at her sister in the faint glow, sniffling. “And why is that?”

Arya waited for the tent to stop noisily shaking before saying, “Because, I told the Hound I’d teach you my stealthy tricks _—_ starting tonight.”


	11. Sandor VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A heads up: more angst, quite a bit of "locker room" talk, and there's a mention of rape, although there will be no rape happening in this story.

“Pay up,” a drunken Cerwyn man slurred, holding out his hand.

“That’s not fair, you oaf!” another whinged. “He didn’t fuck her.”

“I wagered one silver stag that Gareth would be in and out of the tent within five minutes, but you said he’d take longer than that. Well, it was four minutes, and I never did say he had to fuck her. So pay up.”

The losing man exhaled a string of curses as he reached into his cloak and tossed the silver coin at the laughing northman. “Tricky bastard.”

Sitting beside the largest of the campfires as he waited for the Umber lord to return, Sandor memorized every face of every degenerate who spoke pervily of Sansa Stark. Although he couldn’t say that he was surprised. Highborn ladies were often the subject of men's banter. It did not matter if they were from the Crownlands or from the North, nor did it matter if they were highborn or lowborn — men were men. And that particular group of northmen sitting at the campfire six feet beside him put his former Kingsguard brothers to shame.

_And someday, I’ll make them pay for it._

“I’d drink Lady Sansa’s bath water,” one snickered. “I’ll swear it on the next heart tree we see.”

The men chuckled stupidly at that as they passed around a skin. 

“I’m telling you bastards right now, I’ll be the first one who strips her for the bedding ceremony,” one of the Umber men mumbled. “Might accidentally lick her arse while I carry her to the lord’s chambers.”

“Her cunt probably smells like winter roses,” another said. 

“Gods, imagine how it tastes. Sweeter than the wine they make in the Arbor, I bet.”

As Sandor was studying their faces, he clenched his jaw so hard he thought he might end up breaking a tooth. 

_I’ll kill you all,_ he thought. _And your buggering lord._

Emerging from the darkness, Gareth Umber returned from the same woods Sandor hoped the she-wolf would be able to sneak Sansa into later that night. He wasn’t entirely sure why the little assassin child was eager to help him, but she had made it clear there was something about the Lord of the Last Hearth she didn’t like. 

“Seven hells, Sansa looks miserable,” she had whispered to him as they rode earlier that morning. “She can’t marry _that._ ”

“That’s what Beric and Thoros saw in the bloody flames,” Sandor had explained. “And there the big fucker is. It’s no coincidence, girl. They were right.”

The sight of Sansa riding alongside the lord, watching the prophecy slowly reveal itself right in front of him, was more painful than steel cutting into his flesh, more excruciating than fire bathing his skin. Perhaps it would have hurt less had he listened to Beric and loved her from afar. At least then Sandor wouldn’t spend the rest of his days knowing in vivid detail what it was Gareth Umber would be seeing and touching. He hoped the bastard _would_ kill him once he arrived at Winterfell, or maybe the she-wolf would finally grant him the gift of mercy to end his suffering. However, the thought of leaving Sansa was worse — far worse. Sandor considered his only two options: die, or stay in Winterfell, knowing the risk. Leaving her and continuing to live was out of the question.

Sandor’s eyes had become wet as he wavered on his decision. He had no choice but to quickly look away when Sansa would glance over her shoulder.

“I’d rather see Sansa marry you,” Arya had muttered quietly. “At least she seems happy with you.”

The unexpected statement had left him speechless, especially considering who it had come from. All he could think the whole agonizing ride was, _You and me both, she-wolf._

The remainder of that day had been spent traveling beside the little sister, listening to her harrumph and mutter unpleasantries each time Lord Umber had leaned in closer and whispered something into Sansa's ear. Thrice had Sandor grabbed the hilt of his sword at the sight, and thrice had Arya stopped him from making the fatal mistake of riding forward and decapitating the lord on the Kingsroad.

“You’re being _stupid_ ,” she had hissed.

“I need to talk to her,” Sandor had said, quiet enough so that the nearby northmen wouldn’t hear. _I need to tell her that I love her._

“Well, if you stop being _stupid,_ maybe we can think of how you can do that.”

And upon making camp, they did, although it had mostly been her idea. For once, he was grateful for the child’s mischievous and conniving nature. Once the northmen were asleep, he’d make his way into the woods where Sansa would meet him should the sister succeed in sneaking her out of the tent. 

_It’s as bloody bold as it is foolish,_ he knew, _but I’ll risk it all to tell her the truth, even if it costs me my head._

And so Sandor sat there and waited beside the campfire, watching as Gareth Umber stepped out from the shadows and drew nearer, heavily cloaked, looking like an aurochs on the prowl. Upon his presence, the northmen shifted in their seats, and all lewd remarks of Sansa Stark came to an end.

“My lord,” the man Sandor would kill for talking about licking Sansa’s arse called out, “care for some black beer?”

“Aye,” the lord panted, with sweat glistening on his brow. “Give me a tankard.”

Once equipped with the northern drink, Gareth sat across from him and leaned back against a stone, visibly reveling in the winds of winter. Afterwards he took a long chug from the tankard and kicked up his feet on a nearby log, releasing a heavy sigh. “Not as satisfying as a northern lady’s cunt, but it’s a close second.”

Sandor folded his arms tight against his chest, else he’d reach for his steel. _Giant bastard wants to get a reaction out of me,_ he knew. _But if I want to live long enough to see the little bird tonight, I can’t give it to him._

As Gareth leaned forward to hand him the drink over the flames, Sandor narrowed his eyes and kept his arms crossed. “Bugger that.” _And bugger you, you dumb giant cunt._

“Drink, Hound,” he commanded.

Sandor eyed the men beside them, observing the many anxious stares illuminated by the firelight. _Bloody Umber wants me to get drunk. No doubt hoping I reveal a thing or two that grants him the privilege of snipping my neck._

Resentfully, he reached for the tankard and took a sip. The black beer was yeasty, thick enough to chew on, and burned like the seven hells as it went down his throat. Sandor wondered if it would have been less repulsive if it hadn’t been his first drink in two years.

“The lady cares for you.”

Sandor handed him back the drink. “She abides.”

“More than abides,” Gareth said, with a hint of scepticism in his tone.

 _Fuck._ “What is it you want to know, Umber?”

Gareth took another swig and leaned forward, heedless of how close the swaying flames were from licking his face. “I want to know how a savage like you kept your hands off that fine northern beauty. We’ve all heard the stories about you and your brother, even in the Last Hearth.”

“I’m not my buggering brother.”

“Perhaps not, but you are a man. And you had her all to yourself before you chanced upon the little lady. Most men would have taken advantage of that.”

Sandor gave a dismissive shrug. “I’m not most men, either.”

Gareth considered him for a moment, gimlet-eyed, before making to take another drink. “Aye, we’ll see about that.”

“Is that all, Umber?”

The lord stopped mid-chug and said, “No.” Once he finished, he passed the tankard over, suspiciously close to the flames. “I suppose I should thank you for keeping my betrothed safe.”

Sandor’s longsword burned against his hip. _One bloody day and he’s referring to her as his betrothed._

He couldn’t prevent the wry chuckle from passing his lips. “Does your betrothed know that she’s betrothed?”

“Does she _know_?” Gareth gave one sharp bark of laughter. “She _agreed_ to it just a moment ago inside that tent. The bastard of Winterfell has already given me his leave to wed her.”

Sandor gazed at the flames, wondering if Beric and Thoros were laughing at him from their fiery hell. _No, that can’t be true. Not already, not after one day. He only means to test me, that’s all this is._

Noticing the small giant was eyeing him curiously, Sandor quaffed the heavy, repulsive beer in an effort to drown his sorrows before handing it back. “Well, good for you.”

“Aye.” Gareth nodded, appearing pleased by the insincere response. “The sooner we get the lady home, the sooner the wedding.”

“The sooner the wedding, or the sooner the bedding?” 

Gareth roared with laughter. “You’re a mad dog if you think I’ll wait until the wedding to bed my betrothed. I’m not like to make it to Winterfell before planting my seed in her.”

Sandor bit down onto his tongue until it bled. “She’s a proper lady, Umber. Proper ladies don’t lift up their skirts before the wedding," he stated, despite the fact that Sansa had lifted her skirts for him without so much as a betrothal. Even so, that didn’t make her any less proper to him, nor did it make her any less innocent and pure. _Sansa Stark gave herself to me._ Sandor repeated that often inside his head, becoming puzzled every time. The more he thought about it, the less sense it made. _Why does she give herself to me?_

“I have two good hands,” Gareth said, placing the tankard down onto the snow. “I can lift them up for her.”

The insinuation triggered his fury. Sandor’s stomach clenched, as did his sword hand. “What you’re speaking of is rape.”

“No, what your rabid dog of a brother did was rape,” he grizzled. “Taking serving girls as young as three-and-ten in front of their own fathers, letting his ‘Mountain’s Men’ pass her around afterwards.” Gareth shook his head, looking askance. “Lady Sansa is a woman, not a child, and she’s my betrothed, which means in due time she’ll be my wife. There’s no such bloody thing as raping your own wife. You spoke of duty when you tried to defend yourself for killing Ned Stark’s men. Well, women have their own duties, Hound. And Sansa’s are lifting up her skirts, taking my cock, and producing me an heir.”

The men beside them grew disconcertingly quiet. As Sandor sat there in the waning winter storm, watching as the embers from the campfire stirred in the dwindling wind, he could no longer remember why the lord sitting in front of him still had a head on his shoulders. Just as he made to pull out his sword from its scabbard, one of the northmen spoke up.

“My lord, uh, which one of us is on watch duty tonight?”

Gareth stroked his beard. “Let it be the Hound.”

Sandor’s rage temporarily ebbed, unbelieving of his luck. _Sneaking the little bird into the woods just became that much easier._

The inebriated men regarded one another, a look of discomfort crossing each of their faces. “My lord,” the Cerwyn man uttered, “I don’t understand.”

“Have the Others taken your wits? I said the Hound!” Lord Umber boomed. “Now the lot of you put down the beer and get some rest. We ride an hour before first light, and the last man mounted on his horse can walk back to Winterfell.”

Saucer-eyed, the northmen reeled as they hurriedly stood from the ground. While they were busy clearing out snow and laying out the furs, Gareth leaned forward with his face just above the flames, casting the strangest of shadows upon his face.

“I’ll say this now and I’ll say this once,” he spoke quietly, but firmly. “You can leave. You can get on your horse and fuck off to Dorne for all I care. But if my memory serves me right, there was a bounty on your head years back for abandoning the bastard king, which means you’d be on the run until that golden-haired whore no longer sits on the Iron Throne. Or...you can stay and do as you’re ordered, and I just might convince the bastard you’re of more use to the North alive than dead. My betrothed clearly trusts you, the little lady seems fond of you, and if I’m being frank, you remind me a bit of my late brother. Could be that we fight the Others together. Could be that you find yourself the sworn shield of another prince.”

Half enraged by his tone, half amused by his ignorance, Sandor furrowed his brow upon the last spoken word. “Prince?”

Gareth grinned. “Three years ago, my father motioned the northern lords to crown a king. Robb Stark was a good enough lad, until he broke faith with Walder Frey by marrying the Westerling girl. There’s not one northman alive that didn’t lose kin at that bloody wedding, and the north remembers.” He paused to take a drink and tossed the empty tankard into the fire afterwards. The flames roared vehemently as they engulfed the moistened wood. “The northern lords intend on crowning a queen, but refuse to suffer a similar folly. They’ll demand that the lady be wed to a man they can trust before they bow the knee.” He rose from the ground and gestured towards the tent that sheltered the woman Sandor loved. “My sons will be princes and my daughters will be princesses,” Lord Umber said, with vicious pride. “My wife is to be a queen, Clegane.”


	12. Sansa VI

_Silent as a shadow. Calm as a frozen lake. Brave as a Stark._

Mincing her way through the campsite with her eyes fixed on the fresh snow beneath her feet, Sansa repeated the words Arya had told her, followed by saying a silent prayer to the old gods.

_For the love you bear for me, a northern woman with northern blood, keep Sandor and I hidden._ _Give me tonight with him, keep us safe, and I’ll never ask for anything again._

The northmen were all asleep, just like Arya said they were, but Sansa felt eyes on her all the same — eyes that were neither her sister’s nor Sandor’s. 

_Silent as a shadow. Brave as a Stark. I am a Stark, not a Lannister, nor a Hardyng, and never will I be an Umber._

Sansa held her breath as she continued to creep past the slumbering men, cautious as ever to not make even the slightest of noises, and spotted Gareth Umber, her gravely mistaken hopeful lord husband, lying beside the largest of the campfires. The flames were almost rampant, curiously so. When the lord shifted over slightly, the blood in her veins became as cold as ice.

_Brave as a Stark. Brave as a Stark. Brave as Sandor Clegane._

Gareth settled after a moment and turned to lie on his side facing away from her. That’s when Sansa discovered what was beside him — his sword, glinting in the firelight.

_No,_ she told herself, as her wolf’s blood ran hot, _you mustn’t dare._

Once she was fifty feet away from the woods, Sansa allowed herself to breathe at last. The icy air tasted sweet, but she wished the storm had not settled. 

_The winds from earlier would have managed to drown out our talking…and our lovemaking,_ she thought, hoping that wasn’t too fanciful of a dream. _Now we’ll have to be quiet. If we’re not quiet…_

A twig snapped underneath her foot just as she passed through twin ironwood trees. Rather than halt in place, Sansa took two more swift steps and hid behind the nearest tree she could find. She slowly leaned her head out to see if any of the men had woken, but they all remained still. _Still as a frozen lake._

The moonlight trickled through the bare branches, guiding her way, providing her a path to find Sandor Clegane. Sansa wrapped the jet wool cloak tighter around her shoulders as she pressed on ahead, looking left and right to find the man she loved. If she could call out to him, she would, but she was still far too close to the campsite. Deeper and deeper she went into the woods. _Brave as a Stark,_ she repeated the words. _Brave as Sandor Clegane._ It was a strange thing to hide from her own northmen, but it was of the essence. 

_If they find us together, it’ll mean his life._ Sansa stopped in her tracks. _Oh gods, what am I doing? How can I allow him to risk his life to speak to me? How can I risk his life to tell him I love him, to tell him I want to_ —

“Your Grace.”

Sansa turned around with too sharp a gasp and discovered the massive figure behind her. It was a mystery to her how a man so large could be so silent.

“Oh gods, Sandor, you scared me,” she sighed, placing her hand on his chest. “Did you just call me—”

Sandor seized her wrist with a clenched fist. “My queen,” he purred, running his free hand down her spine. Unable to resist, she arched her back and released a small moan. His hand stopped once it reached her bottom, gripping onto it tightly. “The Queen in the North.”

“Is this a new game?” she breathed, standing on her toes to kiss him. As her lips met his, and her tongue lapped against his own, she tasted a bitterness and pulled away. “Are you...drunk?”

Sandor chuckled, soft but wicked. “Would that displease you, my queen?”

The premise of the game was sweet at first until she felt like he was only mocking her. Sansa used all her strength to pull her wrist free but it was no good. The large hand resting on her bottom squeezed her curves, and then he traced the crease down the middle using one finger. Sansa bit her lip to prevent herself from moaning aloud.

“Why did you drink, Sandor? I thought you gave that up on the Quiet Isle.”

“To forget, Your Grace.”

Sansa was growing weary of him teasing her with that title, but something about his tone was troubling. “To forget what?”

He removed his hand from her bottom and held her chin. Sandor’s eyes had been dowcast thus far, but as he raised them, she noticed they were gleaming in the faint moonlight, accentuating the tears.

“That the woman I love will wed another.”

For a moment, all Sansa could do was open her eyes a little wider, part open her lips, stare at the man in front of her, and listen to the clamorous silence of the night. It was a deafening sort of silence, enduring for as long as it took her to comprehend those unexpected, riveting words. When Sansa made to speak, she realized she had not been breathing, and was forced to take in a deep breath. “Sandor…how much did you drink?”

The grip on her chin grew firmer. “Not enough to forget.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I’m saying that I love you,” Sandor avowed with conviction. 

No words had ever sounded more articulate. None had ever sounded quite so deliberate.

Sansa’s jaw quivered in his palm. She dreaded the possibility that none of it was real, that she had heard words so sweet, only to then wake up and discover that she had fallen asleep inside the tent. Even so, real or imagined, Sansa’s intentions did not change; she would tell her own truth.

“I…love you...too...more,” she stumbled over the words, terribly expressing how she felt. Sansa took a moment to inhale slowly and redeemed herself by saying, “I love you, Sandor.”

He emitted a sharp breath and took her face between his hands before kissing her in a violent manner. As their teeth crashed together and their tongues fought to lead, it felt as if that would be their final embrace before parting ways forever. Time became impossible to perceive as the affection flourished. For all Sansa knew, hours could have passed and the sun could be rising in the east while her and Sandor tilted their heads every which way to kiss the other in a crazed, relentless manner. She could no longer taste the bitterness of the beer, but only the singular taste of Sandor Clegane.

But then, gradually, he pulled away. Sansa kept her eyes closed, dazed and smitten and flushed, until she heard him draw in a shuddering breath. “Why?” he asked, all but expiring after the word. “How?”

Her eyes brimmed with tears, watching as he cried. Never had she observed Sandor so vulnerable. It humanized him. It made him a stronger man. 

“Because you’ve always been kind to me, in your own way,” she whispered. Sansa blinked, allowing her own tears to make their descent down her face. “And you protect me. And you make me laugh. And you teach me new things.”

His mouth gaped open. “Because I love you,” Sandor said, after a brief silence. “Because I’ve always loved you.”

That moment was not like the songs; it was far more profound. There was an ethereal beauty inside those northern woods, an otherworldly quality she could not quite grasp. As she was living in that perfect, solitary moment, Sansa knew she’d reflect on it every single day for the rest of her life. 

_And when I do, I refuse to be tormented by all the things I should have done and said,_ she thought. _Brave as a Stark. Brave as Sandor Clegane._

“Sandor, I—” She trailed off when his hands left her and dropped to his sides.

“But that changes nothing,” he sighed. “You’ll still wed another.”

Sansa shook her head quickly and reached for his hands. “I will not.”

“You didn’t agree to it, then?”

_Gareth…_ Sansa found herself rueing her decision to not skulk over to him and impale him with his sword. _I should have known he would have boasted to Sandor as soon as he had the chance._

“He implied and I nodded,” Sansa admitted, quickly following up with, “but that doesn’t mean I formally accepted his proposal. And I never will. I only did that to bide time until we reach Winterfell, to keep you safe.”

A jagged exhale warmed her face, and the large, tense hands in hers relaxed, for the briefest of moments. Just as she made to speak, Sandor’s brow knitted together. “Whether you want to or not doesn’t matter. The bastard gave Umber his leave. And your men, thousands of them, will demand it of you.”

Sansa couldn’t believe the absurdity of those words. “Jon is my bastard half-brother, not my father nor a king or a lord. He can’t make that decision on my behalf. And my men can’t demand—”

“They can and they will,” Sandor interrupted, not unkindly. “Because they mean to bow the knee to you.” He brushed her cheek with his thumb, the touch as tender and bittersweet as a farewell. “My little bird, you’ll be a queen.”

_He wasn’t mocking me at all,_ she realized at once. _And Gareth’s urgency to wed…_

It was all coming together, making more sense with every passing second. _Could it be true?_ Sansa wondered, until she thought, _How could it not? How could the northmen abandon their fight for independence after having lost mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers in this ceaseless war? They’ve sacrificed too much._

“If my bannermen crown me as their queen, then I’ll do my duty,” Sansa acknowledged. “But—”

“It’ll be your duty to wed Umber.”

“No.” She shook her head in defiance. “I won’t. I can’t.”

“You will.”

“I will not!”

Becoming as impassioned as her, Sandor grabbed her shoulders and looked her dead in the eye. “You don’t have a choice!” he whispered harshly. “And neither do I! I could kill him. I could kill your next suitor, too. But Dondarrion was right — eventually I’ll be caught. And when I’m dead, you could be stuck with a man worse than even him!” 

“I want to marry you,” Sansa said, before the opportunity would flee. “I’ll only marry you.”

His temporary look of bewilderment was followed by a laugh so loud that she rushed to cover his mouth with both hands. Once he ripped them away, he took her wrists, yanked her around, and pinned her against the nearest tree. That angered her, but not as much as it aroused her. “You and I both know that can never happen.”

“Who can stop me if I’m to be the queen?”

“You won’t be crowned queen until you wed a man your bannermen can trust, a man the bastard approves of. I’m not worthy of your cunt, let alone your hand.”

That awoke the fierceness within her. Sansa tugged and jerked in an effort to free her hands, to no avail. Left breathless from the exertion, she said, “You deserve a slap for that.”

Sandor pressed himself against her, securing her wrists onto the trunk just above her head. Even through the thickness of her cloak, Sansa could feel his stiff manhood against her belly. “I planned on leaving you, little bird. If I knew what was good for either of us, I would. But I can’t. I’d sooner suffer every bloody day watching you be another man’s wife before leaving you.”

“I won’t be his wife!”

Sandor leaned down and kissed her, removing one hand from her wrists to take off her cloak. “I’ll keep you safe in Winterfell.” He grasped the neckline of her dress and yanked down, carelessly tearing apart the seams. “Before he can ever hurt you, I’ll stop him.”

“I won’t wed him,” Sansa moaned, as he fondled her breasts with one hand. “I’ll wed you.”

He ripped her dress further, tearing the stitching until it dropped onto the snow, and then kneeled down to slip off her boots and smallclothes until she was left as naked as her nameday in the still, frosted night. Sansa stepped onto her cloak to prevent her toes from freezing but felt the chill beneath her all the same. As she wrapped her arms around herself, shivering, Sandor took a single step back and ran his tongue over the scarred side of his mouth.

In a tone that was as reverent as it was beastly, he said, “The Queen in the North.”

Suddenly, the wintry conditions seemed to disappear; no longer was she cold, no longer did she shiver. Sansa blinked the once and he was in front of her, mouths interlocking as he lifted her up and wrapped her legs around his waist. Each kiss was more ravenous than the last, engrossing her to the point she had not even felt him take out his cock until he delivered that first deep stroke. 

“Gods, I’ll fuck you every day,” he moaned into her mouth, overpowering her own cry of rapture. “Every day, I’ll find a way.” Sandor moved his hips in a slow and steady manner, allowing her to savor every inch of him as he filled her. “I’ll fuck you an hour before your wedding, and then I’ll fuck you an hour after.”

Sansa wanted to smack him for what he was saying, but all she could do was whimper and clasp her hands tighter behind his neck. “I won’t wed him, I’ll wed you.”

In the dim moonlight, a lone raven flew past and squawked as it perched on a tree branch directly across from her, nearly scaring her to death. 

“I’ll tell Jon,” she said, as she looked away from the prying bird. “I’ll tell him that I love you, that I’ll only wed you. He can’t stop me.”

Sandor grabbed her breast and teased her nipple between his fingers. It was unfair how she couldn’t scream out like she wanted. It was unfair how their freedom had been taken away. Sansa was forced to toss her head back against the tree and bite her lip, stifling the cries that were on the verge of escaping.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he panted. “I won’t let him hurt you.”

_Something else must have happened while I was inside the tent,_ she realized. _Sandor is utterly convinced, and nothing I say will change his mind_. It was as if he had seen the vision in the flames for himself, or had somehow lived through the years to come and returned to that moment to make love to her more fervently after learning the dismal truth. 

But to her, it did not matter — nothing and no one could dictate who she would marry. Sansa had suffered through that twice before, and never would she allow it again.

_The next time I marry it’ll be for love, not duty._ _And if I cannot wed Sandor Clegane, I’ll not wed at all._

The undulating of her back against the tree as he pumped in and out of her sex made her all the more desperate for him. Having him felt necessary, predestined even; when he was inside her, she felt complete. When he made love to her, she felt alive.

Sansa tightened her legs around him and demanded that he be closer, eliciting groans of pleasure from the man she’d find a way to marry. Sandor moved in the same rhythm of his kisses, firm and sensual, as if he didn’t want a single sensation to be missed nor taken for granted. As her walls were squeezing and releasing around him, she cried out against his mouth, momentarily forgetting about the stillness of the night and the men who might hear them. 

“You’ll have my children, not his,” he said with a sob, raspy and strained. “I’ll watch them grow up to be princes and princesses, and I’ll guard them with my life.”

Her eyes shot open, blurred with tears. “I won’t wed him, Sandor.” It was all Sansa wanted to say until he’d understand. “I’ll marry you.” She swiveled her hips to match his cadence and looked him right in the eye. “And then I’ll have your children.”

Sandor’s eyes were as black as the night. As he dug his fingers into the flesh on her bottom, he said, “If my queen commands it, I'll give her one right now.”

Enraptured by the words, Sansa answered with a kiss. The bark scraped her back more viciously as he thrusted his hips with a new purpose, one aside from giving and receiving pleasure. His eagerness to put his child in her brought her to an immediate climax, consuming her in a way that was foreign and more wonderful still. Muting her moans against his mouth, she tasted blood as they kissed, whether it was his or hers she could not say for certain. Suppressing her satisfaction would only be temporary, living a lie would only be temporary. They’d reach Winterfell within a fortnight, and if the gods were good, she would be with child. 

And then, she would marry him.

Sandor dropped his face and grunted against her collarbone upon his release, but rather than pull out his cock, he filled her with his seed, delivering long, deep strokes all the while. She combed her fingers through his hair, starting at his temple and running them down to his neck. He stayed like that for some time, panting and pulsing inside her, muttering things under his breath she could not quite understand. Once their lovemaking had come to an end, the bitter chill in the night made itself present, causing her to shiver.

Sansa opened her eyes to discover the raven still perched on the tree across from her. It met her gaze, fluttered its wings, and squawked, “Sansa!”, before departing the woods.


	13. Sandor VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SEVEN HELLS, this is a long one.  
> Heads up: we've got period sex in this chapter, a non-con kiss, and (you guessed it) more angst. But, you'll be happy by the end of it - I promise! Enjoy!

“Get your bloody steel up, Clegane!”

Sandor wiped the sweat dripping from his brow with his sleeve, squinting as the sun rose in the east.

_Only a buggering Umber breaks his fast on a bloody duel._

He and the Lord of the Last Hearth had been at it for thirty minutes, edged swords in hand, without a shred of armor to be found on their person. They should have left an hour ago, but upon waking up, Gareth had found him honing his sword and grinned a stupid, satisfied grin. 

“Decided to stay, eh, Clegane? Let’s have a bout, then.”

Upon the command, Sandor had thought, _Stay and do as you’re ordered._ He had licked his lips and could still taste the Queen in the North. _Do as you’re ordered and you’ll never have to leave her._ In silence, he had stood up from the snow and nodded. 

Five minutes later, the duel had begun. And Sandor, as sore as he was sleepless, was losing. 

_I could swing at his neck and kill him right here,_ he thought. _If only twenty northmen wouldn’t come and butcher me in front of the little bird. How would I keep her safe then?_

As he lifted the point of his longsword off the rumpled field of snow, he glanced over at Sansa who was standing beside her sister with one hand clutched at her chest and the other covering her mouth. He wondered whether she was praying to her old gods to keep him safe. _Or perhaps she’s only praying that I won’t make the fatal blunder of shoving my steel through Umber’s throat._

Lord Gareth Umber was three stone heavier and two inches taller than him, which gave the lord a slight reach advantage, allowing him to deliver incapacitating blows. However, Gareth was slower than him in his movements, and far from the most cunning swordsman Sandor had ever fought. Had they been wearing full plate armor, Umber would find himself perilously slow, and Sandor did not doubt he could best him then.

But they weren’t wearing armor, and the lord’s greatsword came slashing down at him just as he swung his longsword to meet it. The clashing of steel on steel used to be the sweetest of sounds to Sandor’s ears, but there something about it now that sickened him. Not even the sound of a man dying would satisfy him after his atonement on the Quiet Isle, nor after hearing all the pretty little songs that escaped Sansa Stark. 

The sound of her laughter, the sound of her moans, the sound of her whispering his name, no other sound could compare to those. She was the sweetest thing there ever was.

 _And she loves me,_ Sandor thought, as incredulous that morning as he was the night before. _She would marry me if she could. She wants to have my children._ Happiness was not a feeling that he was familiar with, but with her, it was all he felt.

Even so, that changed nothing. Sansa would wed Lord Umber, Sansa would become a queen, and Sandor’s love for her would be forced to be kept a secret from all those except for her and the she-wolf.

 _And should Sansa have my children, not even they will know the love I bear for her. They’ll have my blood, but they’ll be known as Umbers to the world._ The realization was as infuriating as it was upsetting. _At the very least, they’ll be recognized as princes and princesses, which is far better than some sworn shield’s bastards._

Incensed by envy, Sandor slid the sharpened edge of his steel down Umber’s blade. Just when it might have sliced off the lord’s sword hand, Gareth lifted his greatsword and cut across, slamming his steel so hard against his own that his longsword fell into the disheveled snow. Before Sandor could retrieve it, Gareth placed the point at his throat.

“A bloody shame this isn't a real duel.”

 _A bloody shame I fucked your betrothed last night,_ Sandor thought, but said instead, “Had I gotten a wink of sleep, I’d be the one holding a sword to your throat.”

The lord lowered his steel, panting and laughing monstrously. “Mayhaps next time, Clegane.” Once Sandor stood from the ground, Gareth patted him on the back with enough force to steal the last of the breath in his lungs. “Good fight. If only we had more men like you in the North.” He parted ways and shouted at his men, “Get on your bloody horses!”

Sandor caught the northern queen visibly sigh once the swordplay ended. Gareth walked up to her afterwards and took her waist to lift her onto her palfrey. Once she was mounted, the lord kissed her hand. Sandor quickly rued the decision of not sending his steel through the lord’s throat.

Sandor wiped a hand down his face, groaned, and then mounted his horse.

Rather than ride in the rear of the column on the Kingsroad, Gareth commanded him to ride beside him in the front. _Thank the gods,_ he initially thought. _Now I can ride beside my little bird._ Sandor’s excitement was short-lived once he realized he needed to make every effort not to look at Sansa too long nor speak to her too much, else Gareth might grow suspicious. 

To put it bluntly, it was torture.

While the she-wolf and Sansa spoke to another during their travels, Sandor was stuck listening to Gareth’s unimpressive accounts of his valor, much of which he could tell were blatant lies. 

_If you were valiant, you would have died alongside your king, Robb Stark, instead of trying to wed and fuck his sister._

If ever Sandor wished to die, he’d be sure to tell him that aloud.

During the first break of the day as Sandor watered his horse, he noticed Sansa return from the trees with tears in her eyes and fixing her skirts. Sandor’s heart sank at the sight. He couldn’t even breathe. Sandor scanned all around the Kingsroad in a frenzy, looking for where Umber had gone. _Seven fucking hells, he raped her._ A second before he would have wielded his sword, essentially ending his own life, he found Gareth drinking that repulsive black beer with a group of others sitting in the snow. The brief sense of dread left him nauseous afterwards. Whatever it was that upset her, it wasn’t because of Gareth Umber. 

_But someday, it will be because of him. I promised I’d protect her, and the only way I can do that is by knocking some sense into his thick skull._

That afternoon as they rode, he had an idea. As casually as he could, Sandor brought up the bastard of Winterfell and silently thanked the growing gusts of wind for drowning out his words, knowing Sansa and her sister would not be able to overhear.

“I heard the bastard feeds men to that wolf of his.”

Gareth snorted. “The bastard is a pain in my arse, truth be told. He only agreed for me to wed my queen should I rescue her from the Vale. Part of me wonders if he thought it was a lost cause. Part of me wonders if he hoped I’d die in the attempt.”

 _If only you did,_ Sandor thought. _If only you still would._

“The child told me he once sent his wolf to the Vale to bite off some lord's bollocks for putting his hand underneath the lady’s skirts.” 

It wasn’t true, but Gareth wouldn’t know that. And should he think to ask the she-wolf about it, Sandor did not doubt she would keep the lie alive. If anything, Arya was like to improve it.

The Umber lord’s body visibly stiffened in his saddle. “Which lord was this?”

Sandor shrugged. “Bugger if I know. Just some lord without bollocks now.”

“Ah, the Others take him,” Gareth grouched. “The bastard promised me her hand.”

“Her hand, not her cunt,” he dared to say. “If I were you, I wouldn’t lift the lady’s skirts until you babble your vows in front of that tree your northerners worship.”

Rather than become hostile, the lord grew silent and scratched his beard. Upon taking a quick glance over his shoulder at Sansa, Gareth said, “My cock won’t like that.”

“No,” Sandor said, strangling the reins with tight fists, “but your bollocks will.”

  
  


* * *

That night, the snow fell and fell. The man that Sandor would someday kill for talking about drinking Sansa’s bathwater was on watch duty, and an hour past midnight, that same northern fool fell asleep at his post. Before he might wake, Sandor walked over to the tent, stepped inside, nudged the she-wolf out of the way with his foot, and carried Sansa into the woods.

 _If only I could take her away forever,_ he thought. _But I can never do that. She’ll be a queen, and I’d sooner die than take that away from her._

The cold air smelled fresher now that he had her in his arms, the snow fell softer. As soon as he set her down onto her feet, Sandor took her face between his hands and tasted the sweetness of her tongue. Riding so close to her all day without being able to speak had built a gruesome tension, one that would only release by feeling her insides. 

Knowing that she was forbidden, knowing that at any moment he could have his head removed for what he was doing to her, heightened his already raging arousal. Sandor growled as he bit her lip, becoming violent with his desire, until those two dainty hands pushed against his chest, nudging until he was forced to pull away.

“Wait,” she whispered.

“What is it?”

When Sansa opened her mouth to speak, she dropped her eyes. Sandor hadn’t seen her so bashful since King’s Landing, back when the mere sight of his face frightened her. “Well, I’m...there’s….can I pleasure you with my mouth instead?”

It became immediately obvious to him then. _That’s why she was in tears earlier,_ he realized. _My seed didn’t quicken…yet._ Though perhaps that was for the best. _The sooner she’s with child, the sooner she’ll need to let Umber…he’ll have to…_

Sandor couldn’t even finish that thought.

As he watched her wring her hands together like she was ashamed of her having moon’s blood, all he could think was, _She’s so bloody innocent._

He grinned. “When has the little bird ever known me to fear blood?”

Sansa’s hands stilled and those blue eyes shot up. “I only assumed—”

Her innocence was too much for him to bear. Before she could whisper another word, Sandor had her down on all fours in the dead foliage and snow, tossed up her skirts, and snatched down her hose.

There was just enough moonlight beaming through the clouds to unveil the glistening crimson on her ivory cunt. And it was nothing short of beautiful. 

Sandor couldn’t get his cock out fast enough. 

He grabbed her hips and pulled her towards him, guiding his length into her inviting slit. Deliciously warm and sublimely wet, Sansa’s bloody cunt made him spend himself inside her on his fifth thrust. 

With her arse still poked up in the air, Sansa looked over her shoulder at him and pouted. He laughed so hard at the sight he thought that small giant was sure to march through the trees. After ten minutes had gone by, Sandor fucked her the exact same way, but made sure she finished first before losing himself inside her again. 

His time with her was perfect, but it was also fleeting. 

The days following were much the same, and each morning was more dreadful than the last. Sandor would break his fast sword fighting with a lord he had to refrain himself from killing, losing every godforsaken time, followed by watching that same lord walk over to plant a kiss on the woman he loved. The first few mornings, Gareth had kissed her hand. Then four mornings in a row he had kissed her cheek. But that morning, less than two days away from Winterfell, Lord Umber placed one hand on the back of Sansa’s head and pressed his lips to hers.

No pain, not even that of having his face shoved down onto burning coals, had been as excruciating as witnessing that. Had the she-wolf not run over to pick his sword up off the ground, he might have made that fatal blunder after all. 

But, if nothing else, Gareth had not forced Sansa’s skirts up.

 _Yet,_ he thought. _There’s only two days separating us from Winterfell, and Umber intends to wed her the first day we’re there. And then he’ll...Sansa will need to…_

Indeed, the days had been cruel, but the nights, the ones he could be with Sansa Stark, made every agonizing second worth it.

Most nights, he had been able to see her, but there had been a few where the men who had been assigned to keep watch actually did their duty. On those nights, it had been impossible to sneak Sansa out from the tent. On those nights, Sandor would hone his sword, stare into the campfire’s flames, and imagine the deceased lightning lord and his dead red priest laughing at him from their hell.

But on the nights he could see her… 

Sandor lost count of how many times he finished inside Sansa. He also lost count of how many times he heard her say, “I won’t wed him, I’ll wed you.” The words were pleasing to the ear, but that’s all they were: words, drifting away with the wind that grew colder and more ruthless the further north they went. Although she would say the words with conviction, Sandor knew there was no world in which she wouldn’t marry Lord Umber, let alone marry _him_ instead. Not unless the bastard of Winterfell was an utter madman.

Late that afternoon during a blustery snow storm, they arrived at Castle Cerwyn, no more than a day's ride from Winterfell. In truth, the castle was not large, but to Sandor, it looked nearly as massive as the Red Keep. _It has been three years since I last saw a castle,_ he thought. _Winterfell is like to look as large as the bloody Wall to me._

Once admitted through the gates, it did not take long to observe that the castle was eerily empty. Lady Cerwyn had traveled to Winterfell to confer with the other northern lords and ladies, and took all the men apt enough to fight in the inevitable battle against the Others. The maester remained behind at the castle, as did the castle staff, along with boys too young to wield a sword or men too feeble to do anything besides shovel snow. The second Sansa dismounted her horse, a group of three chambermaids took her into the main keep, curtsying to her as if she was already a queen. 

And that evening at supper inside the hall, Sansa Stark looked nothing short of a queen.

Lady Jonelle Cerwyn was said to be homely, but Sandor could not say the same about her choice of gowns. The maids had taken a gown of silver and altered it within a couple hours of their arrival, tailoring it to fit their soon-to-be Queen in the North. Unlike the dresses Sansa had worn during her travels from the Vale, the bodice of the gown was impractically form fitting, cut so low in the front that her breasts were on the verge of spilling out. 

And Sandor could not look away. He wanted to shove his face between them, or, even better, slide his cock between those two supple breasts. While he watched as they jiggled with her every step as she approached the dais, Gareth placed a firm hand on his shoulder and pulled him aside. 

“After supper, I need you to take the little lady away from the main keep for an hour,” Lord Umber explained. “Take her to the armory, she’ll like that.”

Sandor’s stomach began to ache. “What for?”

“I like you, Clegane, but you ask too many bloody questions.”

Feigning sudden disinterest, he shrugged. “Doesn’t mean spit to me. I can ship the child back to Braavos if you want.”

Gareth’s boisterous laugh reverberated inside the warm hall. “I have a bed tonight, and I intend on using it. The less the little lady hears, the less the bastard knows, the better.”

His suspicions were confirmed. All Sandor saw was red. “You can’t wait until—”

“I’ve waited nearly a fortnight,” the lord scoffed. “The bastard should be grateful I didn’t fuck her as soon as I dismounted my horse.”

Sandor’s sword hand tightened into a fist at his side. 

_Then why are you so bloody terrified of a child learning what you mean to do to her sister?_

The men sitting at the trestle table closest to them gave Sandor a cautious look. Before they might convince their lord he was not to be trusted, he said, “I’ll take her.”

Lord Umber patted his back with an iron hand twice before joining his betrothed on the dais. Sansa looked at him from across the hall just then, innocent and pure, unknowing what awaited her later that night. _No, not yet,_ he thought. _She’s not ready. I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready._

As the night was growing old and supper concluded, Gareth left the dais with a tankard in hand and spoke to two of his men beside the blazing hearth. _This is my only opportunity,_ he knew, _as risky as it is_. Sansa needed to know, and he would sacrifice his life to tell her.

Neither walking too fast nor too slow to avoid grabbing anyone’s attention, Sandor stood from his seat and approached the dais. It only occurred to him then that the she-wolf was nowhere to be found. Sansa opened her eyes a little wider as he grew closer, shifting back and forth between him and her soon to be husband. Without ever coming to a halt, Sandor walked behind her and whispered, “Umber plans on fucking you tonight,” and continued down the hall. 

Once he stood beside the entrance, he turned around and observed Sansa. She sat there with one hand resting on her forehead, breasts heaving up and down. Gareth returned to sit beside her shortly after once he noticed her current state. He could not hear the words that were being said, but he saw Sansa begin to fan herself with her hands and quickly push her plate away. 

Sandor nearly laughed out loud.

_My clever little bird, so bloody clever._

After another minute of admiring Sansa’s mummer’s act, Gareth met his gaze, frowned, and motioned for him to approach the dais.

“Clegane, my queen has fallen ill,” he said, blatantly vexed. “Escort her to her bedchamber.” Just as Sandor caught Sansa suppressing a smile by biting down onto her lower lip, Gareth added, “But return to the hall at once. I’ve arranged a whore for you tonight.”

Sansa’s subtle smile faded, and a look of horror overwhelmed her expression. 

Attempting to maintain his composure and not slice off the lord’s head, Sandor said, “I don’t need a whore.”

Gareth drunkenly snorted a laugh. “You do. Perhaps you’d be less bloody miserable if you stick your cock into something other than your hand.” After guzzling down his ale, he said, “Take my queen to her bedchamber and return. That’s a command, Clegane.”

_Fuck. The. Gods._

The corridors inside the main keep were ill-lit. Every other wall sconce was void of a torch, and the torches that were lit were burning low. Walking beside her, escorting her back to her bedchamber on the orders of her betrothed, was nostalgic in the sickest, most twisted of ways. And much like she had done then, Sansa walked with her face dropped towards the floor, avoiding his gaze.

“Say what’s on your mind, little bird.” 

When she made no effort to respond, he surveyed the dusky corridor and discovered not a single soul. Before that might change, Sandor pulled her into a shallow alcove and cornered her against the wall.

“You think I’m going to fuck that whore, is that it?”

She fidgeted with the silver lace on the front of her gown, never saying a word.

“Sansa.” It was rare that he called her by her name, but he needed her to know what he was about to say was not the least bit disingenuous. He took her hands in his. “I’m yours, little bird — only yours.”

Sansa looked up at him with dewey eyes. “He’ll find it suspicious if you don’t lay with her.”

“Bugger him. I’m not fucking her,” he said as he picked her up into his arms, “but I will fuck you.”

“Oh!” she gasped, once he shoved his face between her bulging breasts. He used his teeth to pull the bodice down an inch, allowing her breasts to spill out. Eagerly, he took one of her nipples into his mouth and sucked on it until she squealed. “Sandor,” she moaned, “someone will—”

A gasp came from beside them, and then a shout. “Seven hells!”

He’d know that little whinging voice anywhere. Sandor turned his head. “When the bloody hell did you get here?”

Arya sneered at him. “How _stupid_ do you have to be to have my sister’s titties in your face inside a corridor?” she spat, in a grating whisper. “If I were anyone else, Gareth would have your head on a spike before the night is through!”

Resentfully, he set Sansa back down onto her feet. “Why are you here?” he grumbled, watching Sansa tuck her breasts back into her bodice.

“I was looking for my sister, you reckless shit!”

“ _Reckless_? Look who's bloody talking!”

“You need to stop thinking with your cock before you make Gareth suspicious!”

Just when he would have clouted the child on the head, Sansa cupped his cheek. “I trust you,” she said. “Now go, or he _will_ be suspicious.”

* * *

Upon returning to the hall, Sandor frowned at the buffoonery he was witnessing from a group of northmen well into their cups. One of the youngest lads was singing _Jenny of Oldstones_ at the top of his lungs while the man Sandor would kill for wondering what Sansa’s cunt tasted like was singing _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_. According to his ringing ears, the objective of the game was to sing louder than the next man while simultaneously standing on one foot atop the trestle table. Out of all the irksome drunkards Sandor had seen in taverns and winesinks in years past, the northmen somehow managed to surpass all of them.

 _It’s the cold,_ he thought. _It damn near drives men mad._

Once Gareth spotted him, the lord pushed down on the table and rose from his seat. The wood groaned underneath his palms. “Clegane,” he began, taking one last swig from his tankard. “Follow me.”

_Well that took no bloody time at all._

As the two exited the warmth of the hall and walked out into the dark, bleak, blustery yard, Gareth said, “Loyalty and bravery are what earn you an Umber’s respect. And you, Clegane, have shown me both. Not only do I respect you, I’d go as far to say that I consider you a friend. Had you never killed a man with northern blood, I might even call you my brother.”

 _You giant bloody fool,_ Sandor thought. _As big as an aurochs, and as thick headed as one, too._ “That desperate for friends, are you?”

Gareth roared with laughter and smacked him on the back. Even drunk, Lord Umber had the strength of five men. “War has taken too many of my friends, I fear. And my brother, my father….ah, best not to dwell on that.”

They crossed the yard and entered the Guest Keep, a much smaller structure that was only two stories tall and significantly more dim than the First Keep. Upon entering, Gareth led him down the corridor on the first level and gestured towards the last closed door on the right. 

“Consider this a gift, Clegane.”

_I’ll go inside, pay the girl to leave me alone, and in fifteen minutes, I’ll fuck off._

Before Gareth might notice his hesitation, Sandor entered the softly-lit bedchamber and discovered a slim, dark-haired woman lying on her stomach atop the featherbed, kicking her legs slowly in the air. That might have been mildly seductive to him once, but compared to Sansa, the whore was nothing but some unexceptional, uninspiring woman.

The door shut behind him with a loud and sudden bang. Sandor turned around and found Gareth Umber on the wrong side of it, latching it closed.

“What the bloody hell are you doing, Umber?”

“My queen’s indisposed, and you’re not the only one whose sword needs a sheathe.” Gareth removed his sword belt and let it drop noisily onto the stone floor. “We’ll fuck the whore together.”

Sandor stood there, trapped and stupefied. 

_Fuck. The. Fucking. Gods._

“Go on and get your cock sucked first,” Gareth commanded, as he walked towards the privy at the far end of the room. “I need to take a piss.”

And there it was, the one command Sandor could not obey.

Once the lord was out of sight, the whore crawled on the bed and sat on the edge, dangling her legs. “Would m’lord like to sit or stand?”

 _I could leave without a word,_ he thought, looking at the flames inside the brazier. _Though Umber’s not like to forget that, drunk or not._

While Sandor was preoccupied with conjuring up some excuse that wouldn’t result in having his decapitated by an offended Umber, the whore had stepped off the bed and placed her hand on his chest.

He quickly took a pace back, and said in a hushed, rasping tone, “Don’t touch me.”

The whore startled and backed away. Just as quickly Gareth returned and narrowed his eyes.

“Well, what are you waiting for, Clegane?”

Sandor looked at the flames again and suddenly thought of an excuse. “You know how it is, Umber — drank too much, can’t get my cock up.”

Gareth gave a hoarse laugh and turned to inspect the girl who was clutching onto the bedpost. “Well, she doesn’t excite my cock quite like my queen, but she’s fair enough — fairer without clothes, I’d wager. Take off the shift, girl.”

The whore eyed Sandor and slowly stepped away from the bed, pulling a strap down her shoulder.

He turned the other away. “I’d sooner drink than fuck.”

Gareth regarded him critically. “You won’t find me so generous again, Clegane. Ask any of my men, I never share my whores.”

Sandor wanted to laugh. Sandor wanted to cut him down. “Neither do I.”

Suddenly fixing his eyes on the woman who was doubtlessly nude, Gareth gave him a dismissive wave of his hand. “Ah, leave off, then, you joyless dog.”

Without appearing too eager, Sandor unlatched the door and exited the room. Once alone inside the dusky corridor, he pressed his forehead against the wall and closed his eyes, releasing a sharp sigh of relief. 

“Fuck the gods,” he grumbled against the stone. As he stood there, catching his breath, sweat started to run down his forehead. Sandor looked up at the torch in the sconce directly beside him, watching as it burned brighter than it had a moment ago. “Bugger you, Beric. Bugger you, Thoros. And bugger your god.”

Another minute passed, but Sandor could do nothing but stand there with his head against the wall, cursing all those who would take pleasure in his torment. On the other side of the door, he heard Gareth begin to moan, sounding like some giant dying beast, and unwelcome, gut wrenching thoughts soon followed. 

_This is what I’ll hear when I stand outside of Sansa’s bedchamber in Winterfell._

Both of his hands clenched into fists. Once the whore started to whimper, it reminded him of his dream, the one where Sansa whimpered while that shadowed bastard took her from behind. _‘Sandor, don’t,’ she said to me when I meant to kill him._

Sandor slammed his fists against the wall. _Gods, I want to kill him…_

Over the raucous sound of the bed banging into the stone, the whore cried out. _I promised Sansa I’d never let him hurt her. I promised to keep her safe. Even if she doesn’t fight him off during the bedding, he’ll still be raping her._

Sandor made his decision then, and no longer would he waver. _I need to kill him,_ he realized, wrapping his hand around the hilt of his sword. _Right now._

“Clegane.”

He opened his eyes and snapped his head in the direction of the ghost’s voice. In a tone thick with contempt, Sandor said, “Come to visit me from hell again, have you, Dondarrion?” 

Beric eyed the door and shook his head. “You mustn’t kill him, Clegane.”

In one fluid motion, he unsheathed his sword and held it to the phantom’s throat. “Stop me then, you dead bastard.”

Without so much as flinching, he said, “On the morrow, when we arrive at Winterfell, you’ll request to speak to Jon Snow — alone.”

“ _We?”_ Sandor scoffed. “You’re dead. You’re not going anywhere.”

“Thoros is dead,” Beric revealed, somber in tone. “And the next time I die, is the last time I die.”

Sandor chuckled dryly. “Come to allow me the honor of killing you for good?”

“No, I’ve come to ensure you don’t kill him—”

“He’s a dead lord,” Sandor rasped. “And so are you.”

“ _Tonight_ ,” Beric finished his previous thought. “Should you kill him tonight, you’ll never wed Sansa.”

Sandor lowered his sword. Not trusting his eyes, he reached out with his hand and pushed against Beric’s shoulder to see if he was real. The lord was more dead than alive, but it was him, nevertheless. “What are you telling me, Dondarrion?”

“I’m telling you that on the morrow you’ll inform Jon Snow you mean to duel Lord Umber for Sansa’s hand. I’m telling you that he will accept.” Beric gestured towards the opposite end of the corridor. All of the torches were lit, every last one of them. 

As they walked together, side by side, distancing themselves from the sound of the lord's moans and the whore’s cries, Beric Dondarrion added in a ghostly whisper, “And I’m telling you that you will win, brother.”


	14. Sansa VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I would like to say THANK YOU for the amazing feedback on the previous chapter. I am endlessly grateful for all of your comments. Trust me, it means the world to me. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
> 
> Heads up for this chapter: some non-con touching (after this chapter, no more non-con. yay!)
> 
> Enjoy!

“If the Hound fucks that whore, I’ll kill him.”

Sansa released a deep sigh as she settled her head onto the pillow. “Will you please hush? Gods, I should have never said anything.”

“He’s been gone a while.” Arya walked over to the window and opened up the shutters, letting in the chilly night air. As she stared out into the yard below, drumming her fingers on the window sill, she said, “A curious while.”

Finding herself becoming agitated, Sansa turned over on the featherbed to lay on her side. While watching the flames flicker inside the brazier, Sansa thought, _I trust Sandor, I do. It’s Gareth who I do not trust._

“Or,” her sister persisted after a lingering silence, “what if there’s no whore at all? What if this is some trick to get the Hound alone so Gareth can slaughter him?” Sansa snapped her head in Arya’s direction, watching her turn away from the window with her eyes wide open. “What if he knows?”

_What if he knows…_

She would not risk a second to give it another thought. 

After tossing away the furs from her legs, Sansa jumped off the bed and bolted out the bedchamber. Her bare feet were all but numb as she dashed through the dim corridor. Behind her, Arya was shouting, but the words were as unintelligible as if they had been High Valyrian, muffled by her pulse thumping loud in her ears. She made it to the top of the drafty spiral stairwell and began her hasty descent, eyes fixed on the shallow, stone steps. Her hurried endeavor was suddenly brought to a halt when she ran headlong into someone making their ascent. Someone bulky and large who did not budge an inch after her face darted into their chest. Someone who seized her arm in an iron grip.

The words shot to the forefront of her mind. _‘Umber plans on fucking you tonight.’_

“No!” she shouted, squirming in his unrelenting grasp. “Let go of me, you brute!”

“ _Brute_?” the voice of Sandor Clegane said. He gave a bark of laughter. “That’s no way to speak to your husband, little bird.”

Sansa stilled. The body she was pressed against suddenly felt softer, the grip on her arm suddenly felt gentler. She took in a deep breath and let that comforting, familiar scent fill her lungs. She breathed and clarity followed.

Sansa lifted her face, at a loss for words. All except for one. “Oh.”

Sandor pressed his lips to hers and ran his tongue along the inside of her cheek. “If it were only us inside this stairwell, I’d bend you over and fuck you right here on these steps.”

Just when she might have dared him to do it, she heard a second unexpected and familiar voice. “Lady Sansa.”

“Lord Beric,” she gasped, observing the lord step beside Sandor. “You’re...alive.” 

It was stupid of her to state the obvious, but she didn’t know what else to say; she was astonished, not only by the lord’s presence after assuming he had died during the ambush, but from what Sandor had said to her mere seconds ago. 

That single word repeated in her head again and again. 

_Husband. Husband. Husband._

Footsteps scurried behind her. “Seven hells! I thought you were dead!”

“In time, Lady Arya.” Beric smiled, but there was a sadness to it. “Now, there’s no need for a weapon.”

Sansa returned her gaze to Sandor, observing him eye her state of undress. Modesty had been utterly forgotten during her brief episode of panic. All she wore inside the drafty, dim stairwell was a thin shift that clung onto her every curve, revealing the stiffness of her nipples. 

Sandor curled an arm around her waist and tugged her next to him. “The big fucker will get his coin’s worth out of the whore,” he said to Beric. “You can explain to them what you saw in the flames before he comes lurking about.”

A door slammed on the first floor, prompting her sister to whisper, “Not in the stairwell, _stupid._ ”

Sandor raised his hand and smacked Arya on the side of her head before carrying Sansa back towards the bedchamber. Once inside, he sat her down on the edge of the featherbed, grabbed the furs that had been thrown onto the floor, and wrapped it around her shoulders. 

Half in a daze, Sansa looked up at him and thought, _My husband._

“Where’s Thoros?” her sister asked, returning to the window.

That awoke Sansa from her stunned state. She glanced over at Beric and noted his grim disposition as she awaited his answer.

“With the Lord of Light,” he said, sitting beside the brazier. Beric read the flames for a moment and added, “I wanted to save him like he saved me all those times, despite knowing it would kill me to do so, but he would not have it. Thoros wanted me to see this through. And the Lord of Light demands that I live.”

“Oh,” said Arya. “Where is the giant?”

“In the Guest Keep with the whore,” Sandor answered. He sat beside Sansa on the bed and took her hand, intertwining their fingers. There was a calmness to him she had never seen before, a serenity that made her own worries disappear. 

Sansa used her free hand to brush the hair back away from his face. _My husband._

“Well I can’t see the Guest Keep from here,” her sister complained, “so you better explain fast, Beric.”

On cue, he turned away from the fire. “I saw Clegane duel Lord Umber for your hand, Lady Sansa, and I saw Clegane win.”

She pressed a hand to her throat. _My husband,_ Sansa thought, unable to repress the disconcerting feelings that arose with the prospect of a duel. 

_Must it take a duel for us to wed? Why can’t I simply speak to Jon?_

Prophecies were a dangerous thing, Sansa knew. Many stories were told of men and women alike who spent their lives attempting to fulfil some prophetic vision, only to learn that their interpretations were flawed all along, and in some cases, fatally so.

Sansa squeezed his hand. “Did you see Sandor and I wed after this duel?”

“I saw the wedding just the once during our stay at the inn in the Riverlands — a large shadow of a man cloaking you in front of a weirwood tree. Thoros and I speculated he may be one of Jon Umber’s sons, a northern lord who would be accepted by your elder brother as well as your bannermen, but we were wrong. It was always Clegane.”

Sansa forced a relief sigh, praying it was true, but that voice inside her head wouldn’t go away. _If Beric was wrong once…_

“How?” Arya asked, unknowingly feeding her doubt. “The Hound has been dueling with him every morning and hasn’t won once.”

At that instant, Sandor’s calm demeanor fled. “This is different! This is no ordinary spar with swords, you little twat. I’ll be fighting for your sister’s hand! Half the bloody time we are out in the yard I’m having to refrain myself from shoving my steel across his throat.”

Arya put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes at Beric. “You saw the Hound win?”

Beric nodded. “I did.”

Sansa watched her sister stifle a smile. “How does he do it?”

“The duel itself I did not see, my lady, only that Clegane came out as the victor.”

That did nothing to quell Sansa’s discomfort. That did nothing but continue to feed her doubt.

_Sandor may be the victor, but at what cost? If I could just speak to Jon…_

“You should go for his thigh,” Arya told Sandor, with childish excitement. “That’s how I killed Raff the Sweetling in Braavos. It would have been a slow death had I not decided to stick my blade through his throat.”

“Bloody hell, I don’t need advice from a child,” Sandor scoffed. “I’ve been killing men for longer than you’ve been alive!”

“That’s because you’re old as shit!”

“Lord Umber is like to don armor,” Beric quickly pointed out. “And for what is at stake, my guess is that he’ll wear a full suit of it.”

Sandor snorted. “Good. He’ll be slower than he already is.” 

“Slow, but impenetrable,” Arya mumbled. “What do you have? Do you even have that _ugly_ helm of yours anymore?”

“Not since you left me for dead!”

“Why must there be a duel at all?” Sansa interjected, before Arya and Sandor’s bickering might be overheard. “Gareth and I were never formally betrothed.”

Beric gave her a sympathetic smile. “Much like your late father, Jon Snow has proven to have a strict sense of honor. If he gave Lord Umber his word that he may wed you upon returning you home, he will honor it. With that being said, Clegane has the right to duel for your hand should Gareth accept. Once Clegane wins, Jon’s honor will obligate him to allow the two of you to wed one another.”

Arya erupted into a fit of laughter. “Jon is going to shit himself.”

As if thinking out loud, Sandor said, “If it’s honor that forces the bastard to accept me as her husband, what will bring the northern lords to do the same?”

The lord considered the fire. Sansa hoped he might find the answer to the question within the brazier, for she could not come up with one. “I’ve been wondering the same thing, Clegane. You’ve killed their kin. You served the Lannisters,” Beric sighed. “Something will happen. But what that is, I could not begin to tell you.”

A silence lingered, and the four were all left to their individual thoughts. Arya peered out the window, Beric studied the flames, and Sandor placed his hand on her thigh, trailing it further and further up until it disappeared underneath the furs draped over her shoulders. His fingers brushed the curls on her sex, eliciting a lusty breath.

Without so much as looking, Beric cleared his throat and stood from the floor. “Lady Arya, come along.”

Arya looked to where the furs were shifting in Sansa’s lap and grimaced. “The Hound has to come, too. If Gareth finds—”

“When Lord Umber is no longer preoccupied, I’ll be speaking with him.” Beric Dondarrion opened the door. “And I’ll be sure to do so away from the First Keep.”

Arya slammed the window shut and stomped over to the door. Before exiting, she scrutinized Sandor and said, “You do know that if anyone hears you, you’re dead.”

“You do know that if I hear one more word out of you before dawn, I’ll clout you on the head with your Needle.”

Her sister’s mouth opened, but not a word came out. Arya huffed, turned on her heel, and followed Beric Dondarrion out of the bedchamber.

The instant the door shut, Sandor tore the furs off her shoulders and rose from the bed. 

“When we arrive at Winterfell tomorrow, please let me speak to Jon first,” she said, as she watched him latch the door. “Perhaps I can—”

“So, which is it, little bird?”

“What?”

He turned around to face her, unsmiling, and removed his sword belt. “Is it Beric’s vision that you doubt,” Sandor asked, letting his belt fall almost seductively from his hands, “or is it me?”

“That’s not what I meant by...I just…visions, prophecies, they can be—”

“Dangerous?” he read her mind, pulling his tunic over his head. 

Sansa chewed on her bottom lip, gazing at his bare chest. “Beric said that he never saw the duel, only that you won.”

Sandor kicked off his boots. “That’s good enough for me.”

“Well it’s not for me!” she blurted. “What if you get hurt? What if—”

“I’m going to kill him, little bird.” Sandor kneeled down in front of her and spread her legs apart, planting heavy kisses on the inside of her thigh. “And I’m going to kill him slowly.” While running one hand underneath her shift to fondle her breasts, he spat on her folds and spread the slickness up and down with his tongue, moaning deeply as he did it.

 _I need to speak to Jon...he could get hurt._ Her inner voice grew quieter with every flick of Sandor’s tongue, drifting and drifting away… _he could get hurt, he could get…he…_

She succumbed to her burning desire and fell back against the bed, responding with too brazen a moan. 

“My wife,” he growled, before plunging his tongue into her entrance. 

Sansa writhed on top of the bed and surrendered to the pleasure of being devoured. 

A single thought remained as he sucked over her folds, a single thought repeated as his tongue lapped over her swollen nub.

 _My husband,_ she thought, climaxing. _My husband._

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


She awoke to Sandor Clegane combing her hair. 

Sansa had been asleep on her stomach and stirred with a soft moan as she savored the way he threaded his fingers through her long auburn strands. Starting from the top of her scalp, he brushed down until he reached where her locks ended atop her lower back. Her nightgown was lifted, she realized, once she felt a draft on her bottom, raising gooseprickles on her skin. Sansa moaned again and arched her back the slightest bit, prompting him to place his fingers on her sex. 

But once he started to grope her bottom, roughly filling his palm with one of her cheeks, it felt foreign. 

It felt thoroughly wrong.

Sansa’s eyes opened in that instant, discovering the brute who sat beside her.

“I’m pleased to see that my queen is feeling better,” Gareth Umber said, his dark eyes tinged with desire, “much better.”

Sansa found herself frozen in place, unable to slap his hand away, unable to scream for help. _It’s only a dream,_ she lied to herself. _It’s only an awful, terrible dream._

“By dusk, you will be my wife.” His thick fingers trailed down the inside of her thigh. “But the bedding need not wait until then.”

A knock came at the door, and without being granted permission to enter, it opened. 

“Umber.” Sandor Clegane’s eyes immediately fell on the sight, fixating just where Gareth’s hand was resting on her bare thigh. The tensing of his jaw betrayed his deep loathing. 

_Oh gods, if he reacts, all is lost._ Sansa thought. _If he reacts, he’ll die._

Once the lord looked away and she was no longer in his field of vision, Sansa shook her head ever slightly and mouthed, “Sandor, don’t.”

All at once, Sandor took a pace back and dropped his eyes.

Gareth slid up the furs to cover her bottom, but did so without haste. “Clegane, should you enter without my leave again, I’ll let the bastard feed you to his wolf after all.”

Sandor gave a curt nod. “Dondarrion has asked to speak with you before we depart.”

“Ha! Who does this southron lord think he is?” Gareth glanced down at her. “Apologies, my queen, I was so engrossed by your beauty that I forgot to mention — Beric Dondarrion has come back from the dead, again!” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Where is the marcher lord, Clegane?”

“The hall.”

“Ah, very bloody well.” Gareth smacked her bottom before standing from the bed, causing her to gasp, “Oh!”

Sandor never did look up, but she noticed his right hand ball into a fist, shaking slightly with what could only be rage. 

_Don’t,_ she begged in silence, _don’t, don’t, don’t..._

Approaching the door, Lord Umber chuckled under his breath and placed that same hand on Sandor’s shoulder. “With me, Clegane. After I speak with the southron, we’ll have a bout in the yard before first light. I’ve an appetite for a good duel.”

Without another word, without another glance, the two men exited. 

Sansa dug her face into the pillow, screamed, and broke her fast that morning on angry tears.

* * *

  
  


The wind that morning was as furious as she was. 

As if she had not suffered enough during her northbound journey home, the last day of riding proved to be the most difficult. The gail winds were ruthlessly cold, piercing through even the thickest of her layers. Ten minutes after departing Castle Cerwyn, Sansa could no longer feel her face. But that did not matter, not to her, not to Sandor, not to Gareth Umber. Each had their own reason as to why riding to Winterfell that day was worth dying for. 

_I’ll speak to Jon,_ she told herself, as she shivered relentlessly in her saddle. _There need not be a duel — not even to protect Jon’s honor._

By mid afternoon, the wind finally ebbed, and the curtain of snow thinned and became sheer. Sansa was able to lift her head then and could not believe her eyes.

After dreaming about it for so long, there it stood; ahead on the horizon was Winterfell. 

In unison, she and her sister said, “Home.”

Arya turned to her, smiling with mischief. “First one to the gates gets mother and father’s bedchamber.”

_And first one to the gates gets to speak with Jon first._

Years ago, she would have never dreamed of accepting such a challenge from her sister. Arya had always been the better rider. Arya was the one who would be outside in the stables while Sansa remained inside the castle walls, perfecting her needlework, reading stories with Septa Mordane, giggling with Jeyne Poole, dreaming with her head in the clouds… 

But that was years ago. Upon the sight of her ancestral home after nearly four long years apart, upon the personal conviction that she would wed Sandor Clegane within the same castle, Sansa urged her palfrey into a canter, with her sister falling behind.

“That’s not fair!” Arya whined. “I wasn’t ready!”

Sansa laughed freely, happily, relishing the sensation of her hair flowing in the softer wind as she drew closer and closer to the gates. Arya’s curses were growing distant, and soon, Sansa couldn’t hear them at all. 

_I’m winning._

Liberated, unshackled, delivered from the clutches of Cersei Lannister and Petyr Baelish, Sansa felt free.

Even if only for one fleeting moment.

_When I speak to Jon, will I feel free then?_

The castle walls were taller than she remembered, impenetrable in every sense of the word. The south gate had been raised by the time she slowed her horse down into a walk. Shouts were coming from every direction. “The Lady has arrived!” she heard several times. “Welcome home, Lady Sansa,” several northmen greeted her beside the gates. “Find the crow!” a wildling shouted, his beard as white as snow. She pulled on her horse’s reins to come to a halt, breathless and flushed and looked all around.

It was home, but not the one she remembered. 

_Winterfell is no longer a castle,_ she thought, observing the battle preparations taking place, _it’s a fortress._

The faces she stared at were unfamiliar, the northmen as foreign to her as the wildlings. Sansa spotted a group of knights from the Vale atop the ramparts standing beside Lord Yohn Royce. Upon seeing her, the Valeman gave her a single nod and smiled. 

_Out of all the Vale lords, Bronze Yohn hated Petyr the most._ Sansa took the gesture as a token of his appreciation and prayed the other visiting lords of the Vale would share a similar gratitude. 

“Sansa!” 

It was her father’s voice. She gasped and frantically turned to face the direction where the shout had come from. Exiting the First Keep and running out into the yard with his jet fur cloak flowing majestically behind him was not her father, but the man who had given her hand away, the man she needed to speak to first, her bastard half-brother, Jon Snow.

She wanted to hate him for what he had done. She wanted to curse him out and issue a slap across his face where every northman, valeman and wilding would be able to feast their eyes upon it, Lady of Winterfell be damned. But upon seeing him, none of that mattered. Upon seeing him, Sansa felt like a little girl again. 

Jon looked like the shade of their late lord father, solemn in demeanor, even when overcome with joy. Sansa did not wait for assistance off her horse. She swung one leg over, slid off her mount, and ran into his open arms. 

“Gods be good,” he exhaled. “My little sister.” 

Sansa cried into his shoulder, paying no mind to how childish she might look. Growing up, she had never been close to her bastard brother, but he was her brother all the same. She had been a bastard herself, for a time -- Petyr Baelish’s false bastard, Alayne Stone. And that experience humbled her, to say the least. _Bastard brave,_ she thought. _And Jon has always needed to be brave...perhaps in ways not even I can quite understand._

He kissed her forehead and pulled away with a heavy look of remorse in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Sansa. I’m—”

Before he could finish, Arya ran up and cinched her arms around his waist. Her little sister might have become hardened over the years, but just then, even she was crying. 

Sansa took a step back as her siblings embraced and continued to survey the yard. Her eyes abruptly stopped on the auburn-haired boy being wheeled out by a young woman coming from the Great Hall. 

_He is the same boy who used to love to climb the castle walls once, only older now and...different..._ The nearer he approached, the less familiar he appeared. _So very different._

She did not recognize the brown-haired young woman, but remembered Gareth had mentioned that she was Howland Reed’s daughter. The woman greeted her with a respectful smile and a gentle, “My Lady,” as she brought her little brother forward. 

Sansa crouched down to be at eye level with him, wiping the tears from her eyes with the back of her leather glove. 

“Bran,” she sniffled, running her thumb down his gaunt cheek. A boy of two-and-ten, and yet he looked half a corpse.

“Hello, Sansa.” His voice was soft and hollow, nearly carried away with the little of the wind. 

_Something has happened to him,_ she knew. _Something awful._

Sansa looked up at the crannogmen’s daughter and saw an expression as empathetic as it was troubling. Despite Sansa’s uneasiness, she leaned forward and kissed her little brother on the cheek before standing back up. 

Arya knelt down and hugged him then, as gleefully as she hugged Jon, seemingly unaware of how queer their little brother was acting. 

“Where’s Rickon?” Arya asked. 

“I’ll be sending a group of men to Skagos after the war,” Jon said, rather uncomfortably. “Bran says he’s—”

“Rickon is doing well on Skagos.”

“How do you know?” asked Sansa. 

Bran’s eyes lifted unnaturally slowly, regarding her with an empty expression. “Because I can see him, Sansa.”

A raven flew swiftly overhead and perched atop the ramparts, squawking and fluttering its wings. 

_The raven that said my name,_ she remembered. _It was there with Sandor and I in the woods. It watched us…_

Sansa covered her mouth with one hand as her face grew ashen, feeling as if she might become sick.

“Jon Snow!” 

Sansa startled as Gareth Umber’s voice boomed like a roll of thunder. 

_I was supposed to speak with Jon about the betrothal first,_ she thought. Was Bran smiling at her? Was she only imagining that? _Can Bran hear my thoughts? Oh gods..._

“Lord Umber.” Jon gave her a quick glance before walking towards the gate as the remainder of the retinue entered. 

Sansa immediately followed.

Gareth dismounted his horse and approached with a smug smile. “You asked for one sister, but I’ve brought you two.”

She watched as the others entered and discovered Sandor and Beric speaking to one another just inside the gates, no longer mounted on their horses. The conversation appeared to be heated. 

Jon was watching them, too. “And two others, I see.” 

Sansa’s stomach clenched into knots.

“Aye, the southron lord of a thousand lives and my betrothed’s pet.” Gareth stood beside her and wrapped his thick arm around her shoulder. Sansa tried to squirm, but it was no good. “Clegane, Dondarrion, get your arses over here!”

Sandor’s head turned, and his face was wrought with fury. _Oh gods,_ Sansa thought. _Don’t you dare._ Stuck in Gareth Umber’s embrace, Sansa fiddled with her cloak, watching as two men drew nearer.

“I remember you,” Jon said to Sandor, sounding almost as vacant as Bran. “And I remember the family you swore your sword to.”

“He’s a good dog, Snow,” Gareth interrupted. “Brave, loyal—”

“Duel me, Umber.”

Sansa’s mouth fell open. Had that thick arm not been wrapped around her shoulders, she might have collapsed onto the freshly shoveled snow. 

Gareth snorted a laugh. “What did you just say to me?”

Sansa snapped her head towards her elder brother, expecting to find him wide-eyed and nonplussed, but he wasn’t in the least bit. With a grave expression, Jon looked at her and nodded the once.

 _He already knew. How did he…_ Sansa glanced over at Bran, watching him fold his hands into his lap. 

“I said duel me, you giant bastard.” Sandor crossed his arms and gestured with his head towards her. “Duel me for her.”

The yard grew silent, even the wind seemed to hush at that instant. The horses in the stables, the men in the yard, the visiting lords on the ramparts, all became muted, as if frozen in time.

All that was left in motion was her heart, galloping wildly inside her chest.

As each tense second passed, the grip around her shoulders clenched tighter. “Are you bloody mad?”

“No, I’m bloody challenging you for your betrothed’s hand.”

“I've changed my mind, Snow,” Gareth said, never looking away from Sandor, “feed this dog to your wolf or toss him over the Wall to join the Others. He’s lost his bloody mind!”

“Do you accept, Lord Umber?” said Jon, dutifully.

Gareth took a single heavy step towards him, pulling her with him. “You gave me your word, bastard.”

“And I’ll keep my word. But honor demands that I—”

“Careful now, honor is what killed your father and brother.”

A flurry of whispers spread across the yard, but Jon’s face remained sullen. “Do you accept his challenge, Lord Umber?” 

Gareth laughed again. “Oh, you bloody Hound. You must have seen something you liked this morning.”

The arm around her dropped, Sansa blinked, and all she saw was steel glinting in the winter sun.

Sandor Clegane, Gareth Umber, Jon Snow, and Beric Dondarrion were all wielding their swords. When Arya grabbed her hand and pulled her away from the precipice of a melee, Sansa noticed that she had drawn her steel, too. 

The bystanders gasped and shouted, every anxious word bleeding into the next. 

“Lower your swords!” Jon commanded in Eddard Stark’s voice. “One swing and I’ll have my steward fetch a block for your heads!”

Sansa’s knees gave out, bringing Arya down with her. 

“Accept the challenge, my lord!” a northman shouted down from the sky-high castle walls, prompting the others to say much the same.

“Duel him!”

“Kill that Lannister dog!”

“You hear them, Umber,” Sandor said, with an instigating grin. “Duel me for her hand.”

More shouts ensued, more screams followed. Sansa could hear the distinct hoots from the wildlings, and Jon’s direwolf, Ghost, locked inside the First Keep howling away. It was chaos inside that fortress. But strangest of all, queerer than anything she could believe, none of the men she had traveled with were shouting for their lord.

Not a single one.

“Lower your swords!” Jon bellowed. “Lord Umber, if you accept his challenge, you will duel him on the morrow! On the morrow, and not before!”

Quicker than the cruel kiss of a whip, Gareth sheathed his sword. “Aye! I’ll duel the dog!” More screams, more shouts, more hoots; Sansa’s vision was becoming black. “Pray to your bloody gods now, Clegane! On the morrow, I’ll fucking kill you!”


	15. Sandor VIII

The bastard stared out the window of the solar, displeased and brooding, looking like some king scrutinizing a crowd of outraged peasants in the yard below. 

The albino beast sitting beside Jon Snow bared its teeth and growled, not at Sandor, but in the direction of the latched door where Gareth Umber stood on the opposite side, grouching away.

“I don’t want that dog near my queen, do you hear me, Snow?” the Lord of the Last Hearth thundered. “Lock him in the cells until the duel! If he touches my—”

Snapping his head towards the door, Jon said, “Lord Umber, enough! I will send my steward for you when I am finished speaking with Clegane!”

“You’re fucking dead, Hound!” When Gareth slammed a fist against the ironwood door, Ghost sprinted towards it and took on a predatory stance. “The north remembers!”

As the stomping footsteps retreated, the bastard eyed him much like the little she-wolf would when she couldn’t stand the sight of him and returned to peer out the window, unspeaking.

Sandor stood against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, listening to the familiar clamor of steel meeting steel and hammers crashing against anvils coming from the yard. While waiting for the bastard to speak, he thought of Sansa and how horrified she looked when he challenged Gareth Umber to a duel.

_How was I supposed to wait for her to speak with the bastard? Even Beric suggested that I wait, but how could I when that giant fucker was one minute away from raping her this morning?_

The sight of her shaking her head, silently begging him not to kill the lord who had his hand on her bare thigh, was all that saved him from making that fatal mistake. _It was much like my dream,_ he thought, shuddering at the memory. _And had I arrived one minute later..._

“I used to think being a bastard was the worst thing one could be in this world, but I was wrong. There’s something worse.”

Sensing the insinuation, Sandor snorted. “Let me guess: being a Clegane?”

Jon Snow turned from the window. “Being a woman.”

 _Fuck the gods, this one is a poetic talker just like Beric._ “What are you going on about?”

Turning towards the thin, dour man preoccupied with a mug of ale in the corner of the solar, Jon said, “Edd, find Wylis Manderly and bring him here.”

“Will do, so long as I don’t need to carry the lord,” the steward from the Night’s Watch muttered into his cup as he stood from the chair. “If I had a coin to bet, I’d bet it on me finding him yabbering in the Great Hall. And eating. Yabbering and eating. I’ll look for him there.”

Once left alone with the bastard and his pet, the poetic talk continued, much to Sandor’s frustration. “What is the scratch of a blade compared to the pain women face birthing a child? What is our fear before battle compared to a woman’s dread laying with a man she doesn't love?” Jon Snow paused to release a sigh. “The world is not fair to women. Expectations are set for them that no man could ever abide by — remain chaste, remain courteous, remain obedient, and when the time comes, wed a man who has only ever done the opposite, let him into your bed, willingly or not...” Jon enthroned himself behind his desk and clasped his hands together atop a blank parchment. Quite unexpectedly, he asked, “How many women have you raped?”

“Not one.”

“How many have you killed?”

Sandor hesitated. “However many the Lannisters needed me to kill.”

“How many outside of your duty?” 

“None.”

The bastard leaned back in his chair slowly with unyielding scrutiny. “Sansa always had a trusting nature, but I see something in her now that I didn’t before — the North. Although she favors her mother, Sansa is as Stark as our late brother, Robb, as Stark as our sister, Arya; she is a northern woman, a northern lady, and, soon, she will be a northern queen. But before all else, she is my little sister.” Jon looked at him with a piercing stare. “She’s my blood.”

Growing impatient, Sandor said, “I’m hearing words come out your mouth and not one is making a lick of sense.”

“The world is cruel to women, Clegane, and it has been more than cruel to Sansa. I’ll not see my sister suffer any longer.”

Sandor chuckled with contempt. “You don't want to see her suffer any longer so you promised her hand to Gareth fucking Umber?”

“I did.”

He furrowed his brow at the bastard. “Are you blind or as thick as a bloody aurochs? Umber is no better than those useless cunts who were sent to you at the Wall!”

“I know.”

“You _know_?” he roared, ripping himself away from the wall. “And you promised him your sister’s hand?” The direwolf bared its teeth as he approached, but Sandor was too enraged to heed the threat. 

“I had no choice,” Jon said sternly.

“You did have a choice!”

The bastard erupted from his chair, shouting, “Not if I wanted to keep her alive!”

Sandor halted in place, suddenly feeling sick. “What the bloody hell do you mean by that?”

Jon commanded his wolf to stand down and returned to his seat. “Our brother, Bran, has a gift, an ability. I don't fully understand it, but he can revisit the past, he can observe what is happening presently, and…” Jon trailed off and gestured towards the chairs in front of him. Though Sandor preferred to stand, it became clear that the bastard would not continue until he was seated. Once he was, Jon added, “And Bran can see things that have yet to happen.”

 _First it was Beric and Thoros with their flames, and now the Stark boy has visions of his own._ “And what is it the boy saw?”

Jon drew in a long breath. “Bran didn’t just tell me Sansa was alone in the Vale. He was the one who told me to send Lord Umber. He was the one who advised me to promise him her hand.”

Dumbfounded, Sandor sat there and listened to the array of noises coming from the yard. “A child gave her hand away,” was all he could say. 

“To save her life.”

“How the fuck does her marrying him save her life?”

“Sansa will never marry him,” Jon said with conviction.

Suspecting a mutual hatred for the giant northern lord, Sandor leaned back in his chair and considered the bastard, intrigued. “You lied to Umber, then, is that it? I thought you were supposed to be honorable.”

“I didn’t lie,” Jon said, almost defensively. “I knew the risk, but I trusted my brother.”

“So why send Umber? Why promise him her hand?”

“Had Lord Umber not traveled to the Riverlands with the promise of a bride, the northmen would have never seen him for what he is."

He rubbed his temples. “Spare me the vague horse shite and make your buggering point.”

Jon gave him a dire look. “Here’s my point, the clearest I can make it, Clegane: If Sansa returned with only you by her side, there would be nothing that she, Arya, nor myself could say to keep the northmen from killing you. With you dead, Sansa would have wedded Gareth Umber, who would have still had the support of every man and woman in the north. And once wedded...Sansa would die birthing his son.”

Sandor's chest grew tight to the point of breathlessness. In a stupor, he said, “The boy saw her…” 

“Die,” Jon brooded. “And I did what was necessary to prevent that. I did what Bran said to do whether I understood it or not. You heard how the northmen rallied out there for Lord Umber. Well, it won’t be like that on the morrow. Take a moment to think about the men I sent along with him — two men pledged to each noble northern house. That was not mere coincidence. Now not one lord nor lady will be able to refuse to believe the truth.”

“What truth?”

“That Gareth Umber deserves to die in the duel.” Jon Snow reached across the desk and grabbed a charred rasher of bacon from the plate. When he tossed it onto the floor, his wolf attacked it with a ferociousness unlike any Sandor had ever seen. “And you don’t.”

The door to the solar swung open just then, and the pessimistic steward returned along with the fleshy son of the even fleshier Lord Manderly. 

A rush of cool air entered along with them, chilling the sweat that had collected on the back of Sandor's neck.

“By gods, you have no shortage of steps in this castle, Lord Commander,” Wylis Manderly puffed out. “Little wonder your father kept so lean.”

Jon gestured towards the chair beside Sandor. “Lord Wylis, please sit.”

The lord collapsed into the chair, causing the wooden legs to creak. While wiping the sweat off his brow with a food stained cloth, the lord surveyed him and said, “So, a Clegane _is_ in our midst.” A breathy laugh followed. “Better you than your brother.”

Jon gave a short sigh. “Lord Wylis, what do your men say?”

“Ah, I’m afraid that your ill-timed reservations hold merit.” Wylis folded his hands on top of his belly. “Gareth Umber is a disgrace to his family name.”

Sandor could not trust his ears. _The northmen are turning on him._

“Relay to me what was said,” Jon commanded.

The heir to White Harbor hesitated for a moment. “If these men tell it true, which I hold no doubt, Lord Umber spoke of taking Lady Sansa by force on more than one occasion. Disgraceful, absolutely disgraceful. I have two daughters of my own, you know.”

The bastard opened and closed his sword hand atop the desk. “Continue.”

“He spoke ill of your brother, worse of your father, and said things about the lady that I dare not repeat to her kin.” Wylis shook his chins frivolously. “A proud northman he may be, but Lord Umber has little love for the Starks. Apparently he feels that he is owed a debt for the loss of his brother and father, a debt that you've paid back with the hand of Lady Sansa.”

“That will not be happening,” Jon said coolly. “Once Lord Umber retires for the night, we’ll hold a private meeting with the other northern lords and ladies. The less support he has on the morrow, the better.”

Wylis turned his head an inch to regard Sandor. “But my men spoke highly of you. When I heard that raucous outside, that you mean to duel for the lady’s hand, I was so shocked that I nearly choked on my food! Northmen do not have short memories. Who you were and what you’ve done will never be forgotten. But, neither will it be forgotten how you protected the lady.” 

“Will you accept him as your liege lord?” asked Jon.

Manderly coughed a laugh. “I’ve gone mad, haven’t I? Aye, after hearing my men tell it, I will. He’s better than the Imp, better than that upjumped squire from the Vale, and better than a man who speaks of raping the very daughter of Eddard Stark, referring to her as a broodmare!” He shook his chins again. “What an absolute disgrace to his family name.”

“Will there be no duel on the morrow, then?” the steward chimed in with a huff. “Well there goes my last hope for entertainment before the Others tear me into pieces.”

“Oh, I’m dueling him,” Sandor exclaimed. “Even if every northern lord scorns the fucker.”

Jon nodded. “As you must. Honor demands—”

“Bugger your honor. That’s not why I’m killing him.”

“I hope you’re as good with a sword as they say, Clegane,” Wylis muttered, stroking his mustache. “The Umbers may seem simple in the head, but they’re deadly in combat.” 

“The duel is to the death?” Edd scratched his head, peering out the window. “That’s a high price for a lady’s hand. That’s a high price for a lady’s anything.”

“It need not be to the death, but Gareth Umber is not a man you want left alive after stealing away his bride,” Wylis Manderly explained. “I heard a rumor once that Gareth spent a fortnight tracking down some lad for having laid with a whore he meant to claim. They say that once Gareth found him, he tied the lad up in his home, took his own wife in front of him, then paid her a penny afterwards. Although he denies it, I no longer doubt the tale like I once did before. Come to think of it, not even his father would comment on it.”

 _I knew Umber was a sick bastard,_ Sandor thought, _but I didn’t know he could contend with my own bloody brother._

“Was the wife a whore, too?” Edd asked.

“No, she wasn’t a whore!”

Jon hit the desk with a clenched fist, knocking over an unlit tallow candle. “That will be enough!” He took a deep breath. “Edd, Lord Wylis, leave us.”

It took two minutes for Wylis Manderly to rise from his seat and depart the solar. Once alone with the bastard again, a pensive silence lingered. While Jon scratched his wolf’s fur and brooded, Sandor found himself returning into a stupor, unable to do anything besides listen to the sounds coming from the open window: men cursing and laughing, swords striking, hammers clanking against anvils. 

He would have given anything to hear Sansa’s voice or her laugh...

 _Or her moan,_ he thought. _My wife…_

Just when his thoughts were becoming immensely vulgar, the bastard said, “I’m placing you in the Guard’s Hall tonight.”

Sandor shook his head. “Too far.”

Jon gave him a warning look. “Surely you don’t expect to be in the same tower as Sansa, let alone in the same bedchamber.”

“Surely you know her and I...”

The bastard’s face turned as white as his wolf’s coat. “Bran never mentioned that,” he muttered to himself. “Gods…”

 _The boy must not be as all-knowing as he claims,_ Sandor thought. 

“What did he mention, then?”

Jon wiped his hands down his face. With a long exhale, he said, “Only that you and Sansa love one another.”

That created another silence.

 _Fuck. Sansa’s not like to thank me for revealing that I’ve been lifting up her skirts._

Remembering the lie he had told Umber about skirts and proper ladies, Sandor eyed the wolf staring at him from across the desk and changed the subject. “I don’t trust Umber, not for one bloody second.”

“Lord Umber will stay in the Guest Keep tonight, not in the Great Keep.”

“Umber has two long legs that can take him to the Great Keep.”

“I’ll post guards outside her bedchamber…several.”

“Do you think I trust them?” Sandor scoffed. “They may not be as cruel as Umber, but if you heard how they speak of her, you’d have your wolf rip out their tongues.”

Ghost perked up and tilted his head. 

“If I did that, the North would be full of mutes,” Jon sighed. “I’ll guard Sansa’s bedchamber tonight after I meet with the northern lords.”

Although he would have sooner had the bastard yield to letting him sleep with her, Sandor gave a curt nod. 

_Better the bastard shields her door than men who dream of sniffing her cunt._

Jon rose from the desk and approached the window to close the shutters. Even then Sandor could hear the men and the swords and the hammers, every sound from everything and everyone, except for Sansa.

“Before Lord Umber left Winterfell to search for Sansa, Bran assured me that you’d protect her,” Jon began. “He also assured me that you will win the duel on the morrow, meaning my honor will demand that I allow you to wed my sister. But make no mistake, Clegane.” The bastard turned around to face him with his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, a pommel of pale stone, carved in the shape of a wolf’s head. “If you make Sansa suffer more than she already has, not even my honor can save you.”

  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  


In Winterfell, inside the Guard’s Hall, Sandor awoke to a dark, chilly room.

 _Not yet first light,_ he thought miserably, lifting up an inch to look out the open window. Snow was falling, as delicate as Sansa’s touch. He threw his head back atop the pillow and groaned. _Not yet time to kill Gareth bloody Umber._

The persistent hammering that had been coming from the smithy had stopped, he realized. Sandor had half a mind to kill the men who had been working so late in the night. If they were still there, he might have actually done it. Despite knowing that the northmen would turn on one of their own lords, despite knowing that he would win the duel, Sandor’s mood was foul, at best. With every minute spent separate from Sansa Stark, his mood worsened like some ruthless winter storm.

 _I haven’t seen the little bird since our arrival,_ he thought, shifting irritably in the bed. _Gods, is she upset with me for challenging Umber without allowing her to speak to the bastard first? Does she know that I foolishly informed him I’ve been lifting up her skirts? Will I at least have the chance to see her before the duel?_

Lying on his back, staring up into the darkness, Sandor imagined her. He thought of the way her thighs looked on top of his when she straddled him, how her hands would press against his chest as she rode his cock, how she would toss her head back once she reached that pinnacle of pleasure… 

A minute had gone by and all of his blood rushed south. 

Much like the journey to the North had started, Sandor lowered his trousers and stroked himself to those vivid thoughts, no longer contrived from pure fantasy, but authentic memories of the times he fucked her. 

And he let those thoughts run wild.

Just as Sandor was imagining her bending over on the bed to let him shove his face in her arse, a loud clunk and thud came from beside his door. 

_Fuck the gods,_ he thought, as Sansa and his climax drifted away. _Fuck them all._

When a knock came, Sandor resentfully slid up his trousers and snatched open the door, dropping his eyes to observe his short visitor. 

_I should have known._

“What bloody time is it?” 

Arya’s hair was a fright. “Late...early.” She rubbed her eyes and kicked the bag she had dropped onto the floor. “Here, take it.”

Sandor picked up the bag, cracking a smile once he realized what it was inside. “So, the she-wolf has brought me armor.”

Yawning, she said, “A full suit. It should fit. My friend Gendry didn’t have to start from scratch. I was with him while he salvaged it; I guess someone as tall as you died during the battle against the Boltons.”

He dumped the bag's contents out onto the bed. Using the little of the light that seeped into the bedchamber from the corridor, Sandor inspected the steel plate armor, nearly as dark as what he wore in King’s Landing. There were scratches on its surface and dents that had been repaired, though many had been too large to remove in its entirety. But, flaws and all, it was certainly like to fit. He thought of hugging the little she-wolf until he noticed a key piece missing. 

“A full suit, eh?” Sandor glanced over at her and discovered that she was sitting on the floor, half asleep. “Where’s the helm?”

“In the First Keep,” Arya said, rolling her sleepy eyes, “with my sister.”

  
  
  


* * *

He found her inside the empty, abandoned round drum tower — Winterfell’s ancient, unused First Keep. 

Sansa Stark sat beside a warmly lit brazier with furs wrapped around her shoulders, enveloping her entire body. Her hair cascaded down her back in brilliant auburn waves, providing the most strikingly beautiful of contrasts against the jet black fur.

 _So much for the bastard shielding her door,_ he thought bitterly. _Here she is, alone, and without a guard in sight._ The thought of Gareth Umber finding her like this made his stomach clench. 

Without taking her eyes away the flames as he stalked towards her, Sansa said, “The Hound.”

The name sounded foreign coming from her, echoing inside the hollow tower much like when they had been inside that cave south of the Neck. “....Hound...Hound...Hound…”

“Little bird.”

“Does it anger you when people call you that?”

Sandor took one last step and towered over her. “No.”

Eyes blazing with the flames, Sansa glanced up at him, as if confirming the truth of that answer. The sight of her sitting there beneath him, staring at those blue eyes that were as innocent as they were longing, stiffened his cock in mere seconds.

Sansa’s eyes dropped, stopping when they met the bulge that she had created inside his trousers. A shy smile turned up on her lips as she returned her gaze to the brazier. 

“Years ago, you rode in the south gate with King Robert’s retinue wearing a helm shaped in a snarling dog’s head. I was terrified of it. ‘That’s the Hound,’ I heard my brothers whisper to each other. Even Arya had heard of you. But not me. I only ever cared for stories of gallant knights and lords and princes; you were unlike anything I had ever seen. And then I watched you take off your helm. I knew it was discourteous, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at you.” Sansa’s eyes lifted and bored deeply into his own. “But then there came a time I couldn’t stop looking.

“In the Vale, I had dreams about you,” she confessed. “I would wake up and think, ‘I wish the Hound were here’ and wonder what had become of you after you left King’s Landing. As I grew older, I would wake from those dreams and pleasure myself. Many times I took your Kingsguard cloak from where I kept it hidden and held it to my face as I touched myself so I could pretend that you were there with me. When I heard that you died, I touched myself that night and cried for hours afterwards. The night of my wedding with Harry, I closed my eyes and imagined that it was you taking my maidenhead. And I did that every time after. I would imagine that it was the Hound inside me, not him.” 

The string of confessions left him rabid with lust. Just when he made to fuck her senseless inside that hollow tower, Sansa sat up straighter and the furs slipped off her shoulders. 

Underneath, she was as naked as her nameday. And in her bare lap, covering her cunt from his eager eyes, was his helm.

As overcome with awe as he was with desire, Sandor kneeled down before her. “Where did you get this?”

“I gave Arya’s friend a sketch of your helm from memory,” she said, seductively grazing the steel with her fingers. “It’s not a perfect replica, but it’s your helm all the same.”

Some of the details were off, he noticed, as were some of the proportions, but it was his helm — a snarling hound’s head, freshly forged, glinting in the firelight.

And Sansa Stark remembered it.

His eyes met her breasts before they lifted onto her face. With one vicious tug, Sandor yanked her arm, tasting the sweetness of her tongue before dawn would break.

She pulled her mouth away and pressed the helm against his chest. “See if it fits.”

He grabbed a handful of her hair, demanding that her lips return to his. “If I put that on, I won’t be able to kiss you, little bird.”

“I don’t want you to kiss me in it,” Sansa said, in that final hour before first light, in that final hour before the duel. “I want you to fuck me in it.”


	16. Sansa VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAJOR HEADS UP: This chapter is an emotional rollercoaster. There is a TEMPORARY major character death that is QUICKLY resolved. If you'd rather avoid that, you might want to wait for the next chapter. Otherwise, enjoy! 
> 
> (Please do not come at me with the virtual pitchforks.)

The shovels carved away at the blanket of snow in front of the Great Keep, creating an arena for the duel that was soon to begin. As Sansa stood upon the ramparts beside the other nobles of the North and the Vale, she listened to the men, young and old alike, place their bets. 

To Sansa, the duel meant everything. But to the others, it was a mummer’s act, a joust, a mere form of entertainment. 

“A silver stag the Hound yields,” Ser Lothor Brune said. “What an oaf to challenge a man with giant’s blood.”

Lord Yohn Royce guffawed. “The cold has gone to your head, ser. Sandor Clegane is not the sort of man to yield. His moniker is well earned.”

“Ten golden dragons Clegane wins,” Wylis Manderly announced, sitting atop the ramparts in an oaken chair much too small for his build. “Gareth Umber is a disgrace! A disgrace, I say!”

“Aye!” several of the northmen in the yard below concurred. 

“As is the dog!” a northman shoveling snow griped. “Let the Others take him!”

“Watch your tongue, ser,” Lady Jonelle said, with ice in her voice. “Sandor Clegane may very well be your liege lord.” 

The maid of castle Cerwyn turned to her and offered her a sympathetic smile. 

_Could she know?_ Sansa wondered. _Perhaps it’s a woman’s intuition._

Despite the vast majority of northmen learning what Gareth Umber said and did when backs were turned and ears were too far off in the distance, many rallied behind him, all due to their unwavering hatred for Sandor Clegane.

 _Jon was wrong,_ Sansa thought. _As was Beric. I was supposed to have the support of all of the northmen when I wed Sandor. And if they were wrong about that…_

“Lady Sansa cannot wed the Lannister’s dog!” another shouted from down below. “He only wants to win her hand so he can pay off his own bounty!”

“Lady Sansa cannot wed a rapist!” Lord Glover passionately argued, though Sansa believed this was due to the fact that he had a son he’d sooner watch become the husband to the Queen in the North. _A son younger than even Arya,_ Sansa thought sourly. “First the Boltons betray the Starks and now the Umbers!”

“Aye! The North has lost its way!” Lord Wylis bellowed. “The North—”

A door slammed, and the first weighty, clanking footstep demanded silence. 

Exiting the Guest Keep with his usual swagger, visibly unbothered, was the Lord of the Last Hearth. While many of the men had been eager to denounce the lord for the brute he was in the absence of his presence, Sansa did not hear a single gripe upon his arrival.

 _They’re all afraid of him,_ Sansa thought. _All except Sandor._

To Sansa’s dismay, Lord Beric had been right. Not only was Gareth donning a full suit of armor, but once he noisily climbed the stairs to the ramparts and began parading towards her, Sansa discerned the pristine steel plate was thick enough to prevent even the sharpest of blades from puncturing its surface. _‘Impenetrable’, that’s what Arya said. But Sandor was not wrong when he said armor would make him slower,_ she thought, watching as every clanking step the lord took appeared to take a significant amount of effort. 

_If the old gods hear my prayers, Gareth Umber will have exhausted himself before the duel even begins._

Underneath his left arm was the largest, ugliest great helm she had ever seen, and in his right hand was the largest, ugliest greatsword to match, bigger than even her late father’s stolen and destroyed Valyrian steel sword, Ice.

Heavy, clanking footsteps and shovels carving through snow were the only sounds she heard until the lord came to a halt.

Gareth Umber placed a steel plated hand underneath her chin and craned her head up, not gently. “Your pet mistook your kindness for affection, my queen.” The lord’s breath smelled of bitter ale. “But fear not, you will not be made to suffer marrying the dog, let alone sharing your bed with the savage.”

 _But I already have,_ she wanted to say. _I shared my bed with him at Castle Cerwyn. I’ve laid with him more times than I count on two hands._ Sansa could feel the warmth collect in her smallclothes from where Sandor’s seed was dripping out. She wanted to tell Gareth. She wanted him to know that he would die in vain. But Sansa made a promise, and a Stark’s honor was everything. 

“Not under any circumstance can Lord Umber know that you’ve been romantic with Sandor,” Jon had said to her inside the solar. “Romantic and...intimate.”

 _Bran,_ she had thought, shuddering with revulsion. _Not only did he watch Sandor and I, but he told Jon._

“Should Lord Umber learn of this,” Jon had continued, “he—”

“Will no longer duel Sandor for my hand?” The thought had been intriguing, a cruel temptation. _Prophecies are dangerous,_ she had thought _. I’d rather there be no duel._ “And why would that be the least bit awful?”

“Without the duel, on what grounds can we execute Lord Umber?” Just when she had opened her mouth to say something a bit devilish, Jon had quickly added, “ _Honorably_.”

“Gareth Umber spoke of raping me, Jon,” she had seethed, her wolf blood coursing through her veins. “This morning when I woke, he was groping me. Yes, you heard me. He would have taken me at Castle Cerwyn, he would have taken me in the snow in front of all his men had it been up to him, all because you and Bran thought you were being so clever!”

That had angered him. That had stirred his own wolf blood. “ _Clever_? I told you what would have happened if I never sent Lord Umber to the Riverlands!”

“If Bran knew that Gareth was as dishonest as he is vile, why did you have to use Sandor and I to reveal that? Why couldn’t you hold council with the lords and—”

“Bran is twelve, Sansa!” Jon had all but breathed fire from his mouth. “He lived Beyond the Wall for years! Most of the northern lords think he is mad for refusing to be the Lord of Winterfell! They would have never trusted his word to the extent of executing the Greatjon’s heir! Not only did betrothing you give Lord Umber a false sense of confidence that will be his downfall, but that treasonous scum will die without you needing to scathe your family name by putting his head on a block for words alone!” Jon had paused for a brief moment to collect himself. That had been the first time she witnessed Jon act nothing like their late lord father. “Everything that happened needed to happen. On the morrow, Sandor will win and the two of you may do as you wish. But until then, Lord Umber cannot know.”

Swallowing her rage, she had said, “I’ll see Sandor before the duel.”

“You cannot.”

Sansa had given him a cautious look. “Jon…”

And he had returned it tenfold. “Sansa…”

“The First Keep,” she had suggested. “No one will hear, no one will see. Please, Jon.”

The bastard of Winterfell had sat there in silence, looking like a grieving father. “The First Keep. Late. But Lord Umber can’t—”

“Know.” Sansa had kissed Ghost on the top of his head before departing the solar, victorious. “I promise.”

_I should have never made that promise,_ she thought, staring at the heinous lord’s smug face.

“May you be as strong as you are chivalrous, my lord,” said Sansa.

She had never seen a smirk fall so fast. By the grace of the old gods, Jon ascended the ramparts before the visibly befuddled lord might have decided to lean down and press his repulsive lips to hers.

“It’s time, Lord Umber,” Jon said. 

“Aye, the sooner it begins, the sooner it ends.”

 _Yes,_ Sansa prayed. _The sooner it ends for you._

Soon after Gareth Umber had departed the ramparts to enter the yard, her younger brother was wheeled in beside her by Meera Reed. 

_Jon’s here and Bran, but where’s…_

Impassively staring ahead, Bran read her mind and said, “There’s Arya.”

Sansa’s heart fluttered inside her chest as she looked ahead, watching as Sandor strode out into the yard with her little sister who was carrying his longsword for him. 

_Arya has become his little squire,_ Sansa thought, giggling to herself. _Gareth might find that suspicious if he weren’t too simple to notice._

It felt like taking a glimpse into the past, espying Sandor Clegane crossing the yard in a full suit of dark plated armor. As soon as she spotted the dog’s head helm underneath his arm, Sansa’s sex, still tender and wet, clenched with longing, sparking her to reflect on their intimate moment from a little over an hour ago.

Inside the empty First Keep upon donning his helm, Sandor had taken her from behind with a voraciousness that lit her soul aflame. While on her hands and knees, Sandor had dominated her in the raunchiest, most provocative of ways, and had done so under the guise of the Hound. 

_The very helm that once frightened me has now become my muse._

The mere thought stiffened her nipples.

Sansa had looked over her shoulder with a perverse eagerness as he took her from behind, relishing the sight of him wearing the iconic steel — and naught else. The firelight from the brazier had accentuated every sculpted muscle in his body, delivering her the most deviant of visual pleasures. His guttural moans of pleasure had echoed inside his helm, and then echoed again inside the hollow tower. The sound alone had been enough to make her peak. Once she had felt the Hound start to spill inside her, Sansa had dropped her head onto the ground and surrendered to her own riveting release.

And then they had done it again, that time with Sansa on top. Had there not been any duel, Sandor might have taken her in every possible position with his helm on.

Sansa bit her lip. _Oh, that helm…_

A hand touched her shoulder, startling her. 

“Lord Beric,” Sansa greeted, praying she did not appear too flushed. “Forgive me, I was lost in my thoughts.”

“There is nothing for me to forgive, Lady Sansa.” He smiled, but something about the way he looked troubled her. “I only wanted to bid you good morning before I join the others in the yard.”

“You are more than welcome to watch from the ramparts.”

“The yard is better suited for me, my lady.” Beric Dondarrion kissed her hand before departing. As he descended the steps, Sansa returned her gaze to Sandor and was left to wonder what he meant by that.

On the eve of violence, Sansa took a moment to appreciate the tranquility of the weather. A light snow was falling, a pleasant breeze was blowing, and the clouds parted just enough to permit the morning rays of sun into the shoveled arena, illuminating the contest about to take place before her. Sansa stared at the winter sun until her eyes could take no more, then looked out into the yard.

Fully armored with their swords at the ready, Sansa’s two suitors awaited the signal to commence. When none came, their impatience sparked a different sort of bout, one of callous banter. 

“A comely morning to put down a disobedient dog,” Gareth said, his deep voice even deeper inside his grotesque helm. “I hope you savored your last waking hour, Hound.” 

“Oh, I savored it.” Sandor’s words were tinged with malice. “I savored it twice.”

Sansa’s chest flushed red, as mutters passed through the thick crowd encircling the yard. Off in the distance, a group of wildlings roared with laughter.

Jon released a heavy exhale, then took a step forward. “Lord Umber, you have accepted Sandor Clegane’s challenge to duel for my sister’s hand, Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell. Before the duel commences, I must ask, do either of you wish to yield?”

Gareth gave a quick, mirthless laugh. “Not I, but perhaps the dog might have come to his senses.”

Sandor Clegane stood there and tapped the earth with his sword, wordless.

“Very well, then. The duel will conclude upon the first man’s concession, or the first man’s death.”

 _And that will be yours, Gareth Umber,_ Sansa thought, scowling.

“And the victor, whomever that shall be, may wed the lady, as honor demands,” Jon added, brooding. 

An unintelligible uproar in the crowd ensued, instigated by those words, and the raucous outcries served as the signal for the duel to commence.

When the first swing came down, the northern winds wailed. 

Sandor parried Gareth’s blow without a second’s hesitation, followed by delivering his own. Gareth blocked the attack with a thunderous grunt and lifted his sword once again. Hack and slash and thrust and slice, there was not a moment’s rest. Each time their swords met Sansa gripped onto the railing tighter, and when Gareth’s sword landed a cut against Sandor’s side, prompting the audience to curse and gasp and shout, she nearly fell right over. 

Sandor swiftly took several paces back and glanced down to inspect the damage. There was a deep dent from the blow, but his armor remained intact. 

“You’d be dead were it not for that armor, dog!” Gareth taunted. He began to circle the yard, audibly panting. 

_He’s exhausted,_ Sansa realized with hidden glee.

Rather than take the opportunity to circle his opponent and catch his breath, Sandor lumbered ahead and met the lord, landing a fierce cut to his chest. Despite his sword slicing across the surface of Gareth’s breastplate, producing a harsh, teeth-jarring noise that screamed over the crowd’s growing clamor, the attack produced little more than a superficial scratch.

Sansa’s hands became limp atop the railing, unable to believe her eyes. 

_Arya was right. He’s impenetrable._

“Were it not for your armor, you’d be dead, too, you slow stupid giant bastard.”

The jeer fueled Gareth's rage, prompting the swords to resume their dance with unabating ferocity. Every swing and counterattack was accompanied by a sharp grunt or a muffled curse, tainting the pleasant wintry air with a poisonous energy. The clangor of swords endured for some unknown length of time before the unexpected happened; with one great matched blow, Sandor Clegane and Gareth Umber lost control of their weapons. The crowd responded with a gasp, but Sansa couldn’t even manage that in her state of sickened shock. In opposite directions, the two swords crashed into the earth and rested uselessly in the thickening sheet of snow.

Neither man went to pick up his steel, but rather went for the other’s head. The duel with swords had become a brawl with fists, punching and seizing and grappling and tugging. Although Gareth was slower, he had the weight advantage, and tackled Sandor down onto the ground, pinning his chest to the ground with one massive knee. The lord’s hands seized either side of Sandor’s helm, then yanked the once. 

Upon the sight of Sandor’s hair sprawling out across the pale snow like a thousand thin shadows, Sansa felt her blood run cold.

“There’s the dog!” Gareth exclaimed with a nasty chortle, throwing the helm that had become her muse into the boisterous crowd. He swung his fist in an arc to plant it in Sandor’s face, but before it could land, Sandor stopped it with both hands, twisted, and contorted the lord’s arm. Gareth groaned in pain as his knee slid off Sandor’s armor, losing his foothold, and fell over onto his side. 

And then came an exhilarating sight. Sandor shot up from the ground and placed Gareth into a chokehold, ripping off the great helm one-handed and hurling it into the audience. _He’s no longer impenetrable,_ Sansa thought, watching the lord’s face grow scarlet with fury and exertion, _but neither is Sandor._

Rather than return to a grappling position, Sandor kicked in the back of the lord’s knee and turned in the opposite direction to retrieve his sword. Gareth was slow easing himself onto his feet, but found his steel all the same. While he managed to get his sword up in time to parry Sandor’s first swing, the lord was not as fortunate with the second; Sandor’s low, crooked cut seeped the point of his blade into the space between Gareth’s greaves. 

The snow beneath Gareth’s right leg reddened, and the crowd grew wild once again.

Sandor pulled his sword out just in time to take a pace back, avoiding a sloppy attack from a frenzied Lord Umber. The sweating, panting men stood ten feet apart, helmless, armor glinting in the sun, and then the lord began to circle the yard with a limp. 

“Bloody hard to bed your bride with one good knee,” Gareth seethed.

Sandor spat rich color into the snow and matched the lord’s pace. “You don’t need to worry about that, Umber.”

Gareth halted with a perturbing grin. “Right you are, dog. We both saw how well the lady rides a horse.” His giant fists were choking the hilt of his sword. “I’ll lay there and let her bed me.”

Sansa felt a stab of pain in her gut. It was clear to her what the lord’s intentions were. _Gareth can no longer rush at him, so he’ll provoke Sandor to get him close enough to…_

Just as Sandor made to charge across the yard, Sansa leaned over the railing and shouted louder than all the rest, “SANDOR, DON’T!” 

The two words left her, never to be unsaid, never to be unheard, and every eye in the yard lifted to focus on her.

The Lord of the Last Hearth was the last to face the ramparts, but once he did, his eyes were piercing into her own, as sharp as his sword’s edge. “It appears that another Stark has betrayed the North,” Gareth declared. “Ned Stark sacrificed northern lives traveling south, Robb Stark sacrificed northern lives thinking with his cock, and now our very own lady, our queen, means to sacrifice more by sharing her cunt with the Lannister’s dog!”

The silence lingering inside the fortress ended, replaced by utter mayhem.

Jon had unsheathed his steel beside her, as did northmen and valemen all throughout the yard. That time when she shouted, Sandor did not hear, or perhaps he did hear and only refused to listen. Ripping up the snow beneath his feet, he stormed forward and swung his steel at the giant beast. Gareth quickly parried, even on his weakened leg, and the swords returned to hacking at one another noisily, composing the Stranger’s song. And interspersed between the cuts and the blows and the stumbling of feet was a second duel — a duel of words.

“For each time you stuck your cock into what was mine, I’ll slice your bloody throat!”

Sandor gave an impish laugh. “You’d be slicing all day, Umber.”

The distance between the men vanished, and for the hundredth time that morning, the air rang with the mournful cry of clashing swords. Gareth was slower than Sandor, much slower, and the angrier he became, the less skilled that he was. Gareth’s injured pride was wielding his sword, not his training. Sansa smiled. The duel had become a battle of who was the quickest, and Sandor was quicker. For every hack, Sandor parried it. For every stab, Sandor shifted away just in time. All she saw, all she heard, was the two men fighting to the death in the yard below, and Sandor was winning. 

Suddenly, Sansa felt something touch her hand and, acting on instinct, lowered her eyes. 

Bran had placed his frail leather-clad hand on top of hers, as gentle as the morning snow.

In that one second, if it had even been a second at all, the sound of men yelping, flesh ripping, bone cracking, steel splitting, and earth crumbling polluted the air. The sea of onlookers gasped in unison, stealing away the last of the pleasant air. 

Sansa was suffocating; her eyes shot up.

The Lord of the Last Hearth had collapsed onto his back, unmoving, a giant, massive beast deposited in the middle of the yard. From his temple down to his chin, Gareth Umber’s face had been carved open so deeply that Sansa could see the paleness of bone.

Several feet away, Sandor had fallen down onto one knee, facing away from the ramparts. With the assistance of his sword, he anchored the wet, bloody point into the ground and pulled himself up to standing. As he gingerly turned around, Sansa noticed that he was clutching his abdomen. 

And then, before she could rejoice, Sandor Clegane fell. 

Sansa darted towards the stairs, insensible to the bodies she was crashing into along the way. Jostling her way through knights and nobles alike, Sansa descended the stairs in a blur of perpetual motion. The spectators in the yard cleared a path for her as she approached, silent enough for her to hear the pulse roaring inside her ears. 

Sansa sprinted into the snow-dusted, blood-splattered arena and threw herself onto the ground beside Sandor. The front of his armor was carved open much like Gareth Umber’s face, jagged and deep, with a river of blood spilling through the crevice. 

“Oh, no, no, no,” Sansa vocalized. She placed her trembling hands to where the steel had been split open and pressed down to close the gap. It was no good. The more she pressed, the quicker the blood seeped out. And the quicker the blood seeped out… 

“You won, Sandor,” she breathed. Sansa removed her bloody hands from the damaged steel and took his languid hand in hers, shaking. “You won."

Sandor clutched his stomach with his other arm and chuckled. The sound of it dripped with agony. “Say it, little bird...go on.”

“Say what?”

“You said I could get hurt.” He grimaced. “I should have...known to listen to a clever little bird like you.”

Something warm began to creep onto her legs. Sansa looked down and discovered that she was sitting in a growing crimson puddle of Sandor’s blood.

 _Prophecies are dangerous...prophecies are dangerous...prophecies are_ —

“Look at me,” he whispered.

Though Sansa could not see him beyond her burning tears, she did. 

“You’re all I want to see before I die.”

“Y- you’re not….dying,” she sobbed. Sansa wiped the tears from her eyes and peered down. She could see it now. Inside the split armor, Sansa could see his entrails. “You’ll be all right, the maester—”

“Don’t,” he groaned. “Don’t lie to me...not you.”

 _He hates liars._ Sansa wept harder. “I won’t.”

“Do you remember...that game?”

A few steps away, standing beside Gareth Umber’s corpse, Jon shouted to the crowd, “Take him away! His corpse must needs be burned!”

Sansa quivered. “W- Which game? We’ve played so many.”

Sandor laughed feebly. “Aye. The one where you hid from me in the woods.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“I saw you within seconds. You were so...bloody terrible at that game.” They both sobbed a laugh, and then he groaned. “But I didn’t want it to end. I hid and...watched you look for me. Gods...you looked so beautiful. You always look so...innocent. You’re so bloody innocent.”

She collapsed into tears. _He only ever knew me as innocent._ Sansa lowered her head to kiss his lips, tasting the blood that had dried there, and brushed away the hair that stuck to the sweat on his face. 

“Little bird.”

“Yes?” 

Seconds had passed, and all without a response. Sansa lifted her head an inch and found that he had closed his eyes.

“Sandor.” Her voice broke. Sansa cupped either side of his face and brushed his scars with her thumb. “I don’t like this game,” she found herself saying, kissing his parted lips, licking his motionless tongue. “Three dogs on a yellow field…House Clegane,” Sansa wept. “Let’s play that game instead, Sandor. I- I don’t like this game...I don’t—”

Sansa blinked and his face was no longer in her hands. She was being pulled away. 

“Let me go!” She didn’t need to glance behind her to know who it was. Sansa looked up and saw Arya across the yard crying into Gendry's shoulder. “Jon, don’t! You can’t!”

“Carry him away,” Jon Snow ordered the silent crowd. “Take him with Umber.”

“No! You can’t burn him!” Sansa screamed. “He hates fire! He—”

Delirious with grief, Sansa pulled herself loose from Jon’s grip. With one vicious swing of her hand, Sansa slapped her bastard brother across the face. Just as frantically, Sansa scurried to where Sandor Clegane laid in the snow, discovering that Beric was kneeled down just beside him. 

Sansa tossed herself on top of Sandor's body and clutched her arms around his steel plated torso, placing her mouth just beside his. The scars made by fire were cold as ice. “Don’t touch him!”

“Lady Sansa, it’s time,” said Beric, calmly. “The northmen have seen what they needed to see. You need to let go.”

“I’d sooner die!”

“No, my lady. I will.”

Her sobbing paused all at once. Sansa regarded the lord. “What?”

“Seven lives is six too many, Lady Sansa, and the Lord of Light has need of him now, not me. When he wakes, tell him it was R’hllor who brought him back.” His lips turned up in a smile — a genuine smile. 

_He is eager to die,_ Sansa knew. _He is ready to truly die._

Sansa slid off Sandor’s body, but kept herself nuzzled against his side. Beric Dondarrion was not speaking in the Common Tongue. The words sounded rich and ancient, a chant written by a god. As her ears listened to the string of foreign words, her eyes were fixed on Sandor’s face; she dared not even blink. Sansa ran her finger in circles over his cheek, traced the profile of his nose, memorizing every detail should Beric’s prayer not work. 

Sansa dissolved into tears again, despite herself, and closed her eyes. “I’ll never wed, Sandor,” she whispered into his ear. “I’ll never lay with another man. I’ll never...I’ll never forget you.” She repeated it over and over, her own heartfelt chant in tandem with Beric’s. “I’ll never wed. I’ll never have children,” she sobbed. “I’ll never wed, not ever. I’ll never have children. I’ll—”

The louder of the chants ceased, and then something hit the earth. Sansa lifted her head and found Lord Beric Dondarrion resting lifeless in the snow, at peace at last.

“You will wed, little bird.”

Her heart reawoke. Had she been standing, she might have fainted. Once she lowered her gaze onto the man beneath her, Sansa was met with two grey watchful eyes. 

“Oh.”

“You’ll wed me.” Sandor Clegane licked his dry, cracked lips, then pulled her in for the liveliest of kisses. “And I’m giving you a castle full of children.”


	17. Sandor IX

In half a day’s time, once the sun set in the west, Sandor would enter the godswood and wed the woman he loved — the Lady of Winterfell, Sansa Stark. But at that present time, as the sun was rising in the east, Sandor laid on his back and watched as his future bride straddled him facing the opposite way.

Sansa leaned forward, placed her hands on his legs, and began to swivel her hips. 

“Oh Sandor,” she moaned brazenly, “I like this.” 

He propped his head up on a pillow and drank in the view of her round, pretty arse moving in circles. Sandor placed his hands on her cheeks and spread them apart, ogling at her cunt as it squeezed around his girth. Circling and bucking and grinding away, Sansa Stark riding him in reverse was the most stimulating of sights he had ever seen. 

As Sansa placed her calves underneath his thighs, he grasped either side of her hips and assisted her in bouncing up and down on his cock. Sansa reached back with one hand, placing it just where his fatal wound had somehow healed, though the dark, deep scar that remained would forever be a reminder of the time the proud fool, Gareth Umber, all but hacked him in half.

Sansa’s other hand disappeared in front of her, and then she was fondling his bollocks. 

“Bloody fucking hell.” Sandor squeezed her hips until she shrieked, provoking her to bounce faster.

His death had changed Sansa somehow, awoke a part of her more frivolous than he could believe. They had been going at it since yesterday evening, fucking in every position Sansa’s clever mind could conjure up. A friend of hers from the Vale had apparently taught Sansa the ropes of pleasing men, but what Sansa was doing to him was far beyond pleasing. She was instilling within him a lust for life itself, inspiring him to be the best man he could be for her.

_ How do I deserve this? How do I deserve her?  _

It did not matter if he had her a thousand more times before he died — again. It would never make any sense to him. He had a purpose, he knew: her. But there had to be something required of him besides just reaping the benefits of her love and desire. Something to fulfill his purpose by serving her. Something…

“Oh gods!” Sansa shouted at the top of her lungs. 

Sandor nearly spilled inside her right then. The hand in front of her was no longer on his bollocks, and though he could not see, he knew exactly what she was doing. Sansa bounced on top of him some more, touching his newest unsightly scar with the one hand while the other was busy playing with her cunt. Sandor shut his eyes, forcing himself not to spill, then felt her contract around him upon her unbridled release.

The morning sun rays that seeped through the shutters caught in her hair, making it shine like copper. She tossed her head back and let those long copper strands spill onto his chest. No longer needing to resist the urge, Sandor seized her waist and plowed into her as he filled her with his seed. He wasn’t quiet in his release, cursing every word he knew in the Common Tongue, but neither was he half as loud as her. 

_ Gods, how do I deserve this?  _ he thought, as he emptied himself inside her cunt.  _ How do I bloody deserve this? _

A little minx she was, crawling beside him afterwards and kissing him on his neck. His cock ached something fierce; if he didn’t rest, he would never be able to bed her later that night.

As Sansa threaded her fingers through the hair on his chest, triggering him to doze off, she said, “After we break our fast, can we do it that way again, but with you sitting instead of laying down?”

Sandor’s eyes shot open. “Now I see what you’re doing, little bird.”

Sansa sat up and looked down at him, furrowing her brow. “What?”

“You want me dead again, is that it? You plan on fucking me to death to save yourself from the wedding?” He meant it as a jape, but that didn’t stop her from dissolving into tears. Sandor sat up swiftly and pulled her into his lap. “Fuck,” he thought out loud, “don’t cry, little bird. I didn’t mean—”

“It was awful,” she sobbed into his chest. “It was so awful.”

She didn’t need to explain any further. Death for him had been quick, like falling asleep after being drastically fatigued. He died unknowingly, then heard her voice in a state of darkness. ‘ _ I’ll never wed. I’ll never have children’,  _ he remembered her words. Sandor could hear her as she had it, but when he had tried to call out to her, nothing could be said, not until he had awoken from that strange, empty stage of death and opened his eyes.

He would never say it aloud, he hated himself for even thinking it, but grief looked beautiful on her, though he would sooner see her smile. If there was ever a true testament of her love for him, it had been that, watching her mourn him in the middle of the castle yard with every man and woman in sight. It had been a testament to him, and it had been a testament to the others. 

_ Dondarrion said something would happen to earn the support of the northmen,  _ he thought, growing somber.  _ Beric and Thoros were good men, irritating shits from time to time, but good men nevertheless. And now they finally rest. _

Had it not been for Sansa’s public display of affection, nor Gareth opening his proud mouth and confirming his wicked nature, the northmen might never have come to a consensus regarding their support for him and Sansa. Honor demanded the bastard of Winterfell to allow it, but it was Sansa, not Jon nor Gareth, who had convinced those who remained skeptical. Well, skeptical they might still be, but at the very least they did not voice their dissent. 

Not an hour after his resurrection yesterday morning had passed before he, Sansa, and the bastard met with the heads of each house. Each had stated their concerns, each had asked their own questions regarding the matter, but by the end it, a unanimous agreement had been reached: the northmen would remain loyal and support their lady, and soon, their new lord. 

_ Me, a lord? Once that raven flies, Westeros will shit themselves with laughter.  _

In an effort to comfort Sansa, he kissed the top of her head, unspeaking but fully present. Diction was not his greatest asset, so he’d rely on his physical affection to quell her sadness — and it worked. Her sobs were replaced by occasional sniffles, then gone entirely.

As the two sat there in that comforting silence, naked and sleep deprived after fucking for the sixth time since yesterday evening, a soft knock came at her door. 

“My lady,” her chambermaid called through the door. Sandor could hear the girl’s uneasiness, even through the thick slab of oak.  _ She heard that whole thing,  _ he thought, amused.  _ And with how loud the little bird was chirping, half the castle probably heard it.  _ “The Lord Commander has requested Sandor Clegane to speak with him inside the solar.”

Sansa sighed. Sandor cursed.

“I’ll send him,” said Sansa.

“Would you like for me to draw you a bath, my lady?”

“Yes, thank you...in a moment.” Sansa shifted in his lap until she was straddling him. He could feel the wetness of her cunt against his skin, and the warmth of his seed as it began to trickle out. “We may not be able to see each other until the wedding.” She traced the scar on his stomach with one finger before reaching back and grabbing his cock. 

Sandor groaned, but stiffened in her hand all the same. “Aye, lets hope I still have a cock when it comes time to consummate our marriage.”

Sansa giggled and turned around, guiding him inside as she faced the other way. “You will.”

  
  


* * *

As Sandor sat in the solar, his cock all but falling off, the bastard brooded out the window and lectured him on every bloody thing under the sun. 

Being thirteen years the bastard’s senior, Sandor wondered if it was his Stark blood that made him so bold, or the blood of whichever tavern wench made the honorable Lord Eddard Stark forget his honor long enough to squirt his seed inside her cunt. Taller, heavier, and stronger, too, Sandor began to consider tossing the solemn, lecturing bastard right out the window.

_ He’s Sansa’s blood, even if only half. And he’ll be my good brother soon…  _ Sandor chuckled under his breath, irked.

“I must have missed what I said that was so amusing,” said Jon Snow, turning away from the window.

“Who’s laughing?”

Jon frowned. “You’re to be the liege lord of every northern man and woman here. You must needs learn northern traditions. They may have accepted you, but do not assume they cannot turn on you just as quick. Northerners demand you to earn their respect. Northerners demand—”

“Spare me, Snow. I heard everything you’ve been blathering on about over there.” Sandor noticed the pale direwolf in the corner rise from the floor, prompting him to speak with a kinder tone. “I’ll not make them regret it, nor your sister. I’ll do what I must to earn their respect.”

Jon sat down at his desk and perused a lengthy parchment. “You will,” he finally said. The tone of his voice troubled him. The bastard set the parchment aside, turning it face down. “What did you see when you died?”

The question caught Sandor off guard. “Shouldn’t you know? I heard some red witch brought you back after a mutiny at the Wall.” 

“What did you see?” Jon asked again, firmly.

“Nothing.”

“What did you hear?”

Earnestly, Sandor said, “Sansa.”

Jon lowered his gaze, returning to where the parchment rested. “I heard someone, too.”

“Who?”

“A woman that I’ve yet to meet.”

_ Seven hells, here he goes again with the sulky poetic shite. _

Just before Sandor could think of an excuse to storm out of the solar, Jon said, “A wedding will be good for morale, I think. Bran speaks of the Others as if they are right outside our gates, though it will be a couple months before…” He trailed off, opening and closing his sword hand atop the desk. “The northmen, valemen, and wildings could use one night to celebrate life rather than anticipate its ending. After the ceremony in the godswood, we’ll have a modest feast inside the Great Hall. It will be the last feast for many of them, their last night of joy. We’d do well to make the best of it.”

Half lulled to sleep by the bastard’s morose nature, half amused by his feeble attempt to convince himself the wedding had a bright side, Sandor said, “Aye, no fear of that. It’ll be a night to remember.”

Sullenly, Jon said, “It will.”

* * *

  
  
  


Dusk had fallen, all without a single flake of snow.

That was promising, he thought. Many of the northmen believed that snow during a wedding would lead to a cold marriage. But just then, the black sky was clear, decorated only by the moon and the stars that seemed to shine a little bit brighter that night.

Standing inside the ancient godswood, awaiting his bride, Sandor Clegane found himself reflecting on the night green fire filled the sky, those horrifying hours when the Blackwater burned. 

He had been terrified to a degree far greater than he thought was possible. Remembering it struck the same chord, no matter how many days had passed. And yet, as Sandor stood there, clad in all black from his doublet and jerkin to his cloak and breeches, he found himself more terrified still. Not because of the crowd of noble lords and ladies who made up the audience inside the godswood, nor because of the wedding ceremony itself, but because of his growing apprehension that Sansa might change her mind. 

_ How do I deserve this? How do I deserve her?  _ he thought time and time again. 

She was clever and beautiful and highborn, a lady, soon to be crowned a queen, and she wanted to wed him. She would only wed him. 

Sandor stared at the torches lit inside the godswood, savoring the warm, enchanting atmosphere they created once the sun fully set in the west, and thought,  _ R’hllor, Beric, Thoros, whichever one of you fire-loving bastards can hear me, don’t let her change her mind. You saw me wed her, for whatever reason. All I ask is that it’s true and not another flawed interpretation.  _

Once the she-wolf finally appeared and stood beside her younger brother who sat adjacent to the weirwood tree, its pale bark and dark red leaves all but glowing inside that primal place, Sandor knew it would only be seconds before his bride appeared.

He met Wylis Manderly’s gaze. The fat lord sat in an ornate ironwood chair beside a brightly lit torch and gave him a nod of approval. Out of all the northern lords, he proved to be his greatest supporter. 

_ Three years ago he would have decorated White Harbor with my head, and now he attends my wedding with the daughter of Winterfell.  _

It would never make any sense.

But there she was, smiling, emerging from the trees beside the entrance, escorted by the bastard of Winterfell. 

‘ _ There she is, Clegane — Sansa Stark _ ’, he remembered Thoros’ words when they caught a glimpse of her in the Riverlands.  _ Thank the gods,  _ Sandor thought.  _ Thank the bloody gods. _

She wore a gown of ivory with a snug fitting bodice that glittered in the torchlight, delicately embroidered from the bust down to the flowy ends of her skirts. Her wavy hair was draped over both shoulders, framing her face that radiated in the dreamlike atmosphere. She wore a cloak fastened around her throat, grey wool with a white fur trim — her family’s colors. Sansa might have been a widow, but she remained a Stark, and before the night was through, he would be one, too. 

Northern weddings, to his pleasure, were not the sort of tedious ceremonies seen in the south. Upon the bastard escorting Sansa, Sandor recited what Jon had told him to ask. “Who comes before the old gods?” to which the bastard sullenly responded, “Lady Sansa of House Stark has come here to be wed. Who has come to claim her?” Sandor stated his name, watching Jon’s broody expression become broodier, and then Sandor proceeded by asking whether she accepts him as her husband to which Sansa said eagerly and willingly, “I take this man.”

Jon Snow, all but withering away from his outward misery, took her hand and placed it in Sandor’s. Together, hand in hand, they kneeled in front of the heart tree’s melancholy, unsettling carved face and prayed in silence. While Sansa would be praying to her old gods, Sandor’s prayer consisted solely of him begging the Lord of Light who had given him another chance at life that when the time comes (far off in the future, he hoped), he would live one day shorter than Sansa, that way he’d never have to live without her.

Following the silent moment of prayer, they rose as man and wife. 

The she-wolf stepped forward with something bundled in her arms. Without uttering a word, she handed him the woolen fabric and returned to stand beside the tree with her brothers. 

He unfolded the woolen cloak, finding it mended and stainless, as white as the bark on the weirwood tree. “Little bird,” he exhaled, his throat growing tight. 

Sansa’s eyes sparkled in the light, welling with tears. “I know I’ll remain a Stark, but I want you to cloak me with this.” She reached out and let the Kingsguard cloak run through her fingers. “The same cloak you left me that night, the same cloak I held onto the years apart, and now, the cloak that will make me your bride.”

Had they been the only two inside the godswood, he would have skipped the feast and bedded her right there, sentient tree be damned. Instead, Sandor removed the grey cloak and wrapped her in the other, listening to her sniffle as he clasped it at her neck. Their union was far from traditional. Sansa was a highborn lady, and he was naught but a former sworn shield. Sansa would keep her family name, and he would adopt it. And yet, that moment felt more natural than any thousand year tradition ever could.

Upon cloaking his bride, Sandor picked her up into his arms and kissed her, first with tenderness, then with hunger. 

And if he could trust his ears, the northern lords and ladies were clapping and cheering.

The wedding ceremony was over, all without a single flake of snow.

As he carried her towards the Great Hall for the feast, which with limited provisions would likely be an ordinary supper with an excess amount of ale and wine, he and Sansa exchanged ribald whispers.

“I want to make love to you in that same position tonight,” she said innocently, twirling a lock of his hair around her finger. 

_ Which bloody one?  _ he thought, reflecting on the six they had tried last night, but what he said was, “We can do them all tonight, wife.” The word felt as fine as silk on his tongue. “You can sit on my cock every which way.”

He looked down at her in his arms and discovered her cheeks were flushed. Sansa caressed his scars and said, “What about on your face?”

Sandor abruptly turned on his heel away from where the feast would be held and prowled towards the Great Keep instead. 

Tossing her head back in a fit of laughter, Sansa hit him on the shoulder and said, “Not yet! You need to go—”

“Clegane,” the bastard’s voice called out behind them in a dour tone, “to the Great Hall.”

He came to a halt, and Sansa’s laughter ceased. 

_ The day this bastard fucks off back to the Wall and lets the Others take him…  _

Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck, as if she sensed his frustration. “Let’s go, Sandor. Everyone will be eager to celebrate.”

She always knew how to gentle his rage. While his time on the Quiet Isle had taught him the severity of taking another man’s life (Gareth Umber had been the first man he killed in three years, and his death had been more than justified), Sansa remained his greatest motivation not to conduct himself like the same savage Hound that had died in the Riverlands. 

Sandor gave her a kiss of gratitude and made for the hall.

The modest feast  _ was _ modest, but certainly not any less lively than the wedding feasts he attended while serving the Lannisters. 

Inside Winterfell’s Great Hall, eight long rows of trestle tables were full of men and women from the North, from the Vale, and from beyond the Wall. While venison and mutton were limited, wine and ale certainly were not. And within fifteen minutes of being seated on the dais beside his bride, the entire hall was thoroughly in their cups.

Music filled the balmy hall, as did laughter and the occasional hot shouts from men gambling with one another and arm wrestling for an extra serving of meat. All were pleasant sounds, though Sandor found himself becoming too engrossed by his pleasantly tipsy wife to appreciate them.

It had taken only three cups of mulled wine to do it to her.  _ So bloody innocent,  _ he thought, watching as she missed the food on her plate with her fork, and chuckled under his breath. Sansa never had any intention of getting drunk, but as they watched the arm wrestling taking place inside the hall, the two of them made it a game and bet on which man would win, the loser needing to take a swig of their drink. 

At that point in the evening, Sandor had been right every time, and a drop of ale had yet to touch his lips. 

Once the dancing had started, the bastard rose from his seat beside them on the dais and took Sansa’s hand, almost urgently. Jon Snow and his brooding self did not seem like the type of man to be fond of dancing. It was not difficult for him to see what he was doing. 

_ The bastard wants to speak to her in private.  _ He found himself vexed by that, knowing that if Jon said anything to her that dampened her mood the slightest bit, Sandor might find himself in his second duel in two days. Sansa draped her bride’s cloak over her chair and gave him a wet tongue kiss before departing. 

_ If this is what mulled wine does to her in public, my cock has no chance tonight. _ Sandor took a swig of his ale and thought of new ways he would fuck her in an hour’s time.

As Jon and Sansa danced with one another to a steady tempo while the bastard lectured her about gods know what, Sandor nearly drew his dagger once he felt someone suddenly standing behind him.

“You need to dance with her,” the she-wolf’s voice said. 

Sandor quaffed his ale and refilled it. “I will.”

Arya sat beside him in Sansa’s chair, squinting. “You don’t know how to dance, do you? Guess that’s to be expected when my sister marries an uncultured shit like you.”

“I heard you cried yesterday out in the yard,” Sandor teased the goading child. “I heard you cried a lot.”

“Not for you!” she said defensively. “I cried because...the armor Gendry and I stayed up all night forging was ruined.”

Sandor snorted into his ale. “This Gendry, what is he?”

Arya frowned. “What do you mean what is he? He’s a blacksmith.”

“What’s his family name?”

“He doesn’t have one. He’s a bastard.”

“A bastard blacksmith, eh?” Sandor peered at the trestle table where the black-haired lad sat. There was a likeness to him that was vaguely familiar. “How old is the boy?”

“Old enough.”

Sandor eyed her suspiciously, then slammed his mug onto the table. “Old enough for what?” 

Arya chewed her lip, then scampered away, grabbing her bastard lover’s hand before the two exited the Great Hall.

“Bloody hell.” Sandor downed the remainder of his drink and stared off into the hearth. 

_ If I ever have a daughter, I’m like to go mad.  _

When the northern tune had concluded, Jon escorted Sansa back to the dais, and luckily for the bastard, she didn’t appear any less jubilant than before. Upon sitting down, she leaned over, placed her hand on his groin, and gave him another shameless tongue kiss.

Jon cleared his throat loudly and leaned down to speak to him afterwards, murmuring, “She’s had enough wine. When the serving girls come by, see that she drinks water for the remainder of the evening.”

The bastard’s audacity incensed him. Not only did Sandor have a serving girl refill Sansa’s cup once Jon stepped off the dais to speak with his steward down the hall, he made sure the girl brought his wife a full flagon of the spiced wine.

The wildlings ended up taking over the music, bringing out their pipes and drums and filling the Great Hall with foreign, frenetic tunes. Watching the chaotic dancing taking place, and knowing Sansa would be as novice to it as him, spawned an idea.

Sandor rose from his chair. “On your feet, little bird.”

She looked up at him as she took another sip of mulled wine, majestically inebriated. “Hm?”

“Let’s dance.”

That appeared to sober her up. Nearly choking on the wine she had just swallowed, Sansa placed the cup down and said, “I- I can’t dance to this.”

Sandor grinned at her reluctance.  _ So bloody innocent.  _ “Why not?”

“I don’t know how,” she stammered. “This is music from beyond the Wall, and it’s so...fast.”

He grabbed her hand and lifted her onto her feet. “All the better, then. I like it fast.”

Sansa’s eyes grew heavy, as if she meant to bed him right there on the dais. “I’ve known you to like it both ways.”

Before his cock would conspicuously strain against his laces, he led her to the tumultuous floor.

“Sandor, wait!” she shouted, though she did not pull away from his grip. “I don’t know how!”

He pulled her in close to him and watched the others. “Neither do I, little bird.” 

The boldness she had exhibited all day seemed to flee; not even the wine could convince her. “Oh gods, I’ll look so stupid.”

“Aye, we’re about to make an arse out of ourselves.” Sandor lowered his gaze and lifted up her chin. “But we’ll do it together. Take a look around you, girl — they’re all drunk. Not one of them is like to remember.”

_ At least I bloody hope not _ . 

Luckily for him, the wildling’s style of dance did not appear to require much skill, nor did it have the refined nature of the Westerosi dances he had seen over his years. The men all but snatched a woman from her seat, wildling and noble alike, and traveled across the floor with hurried steps, matching the tempo of the frenzied folk music filling Winterfell’s Great Hall.

Sandor looked down at her and grinned. “Are you ready?”

Wide-eyed, she said, “Oh gods, I can’t.”

The rhythm grew faster, and then they were off. 

Half-gasping, half-laughing, Sansa said, “Sandor! No!”

Mimicking the others, he guided her around the floor in a jumping, sprinting sort of manner. It was unrefined and unpolished, a far cry from the elegant rock and sway of the hundreds of dances he had seen at feasts and tourneys and weddings. 

“Sandor!” she screamed with glee. “Wait! Stop!”

The drumming picked up speed again, and so did they.

They spun around and were an inch away from crashing into Lady Alys Karstark and her wildling husband. Sansa shouted again, laughing all the while, “Sandor! No!” 

Others had joined in, and the floor was becoming more and more crowded. Rather than a dance it became a game of moving as fast as you could throughout the hall without knocking over a knight or a lord on his arse. Sandor could hear the zestful hoots and cheers from the wildlings who rallied them on. The hall felt warmer than a summer’s day in King’s Landing, and had become just as busy, too. Eyes shut and mouth parted open from laughter, Sansa’s everlasting innocence left him in awe. He became mindless of their surroundings, crashing into more than one couple as they capered about the floor. The more frantic the rhythm and the less control they had over their own bodies, the louder the two of them laughed. 

In that moment, they were free, more so than when they had traveled alone together in the Neck. Because no longer was their love for one another a secret. She was his wife and would be until the day he died.

By the end of the song, they both had sweat on their brow. Catching her breath, breasts heaving up and down alluringly, Sansa looked up at him and said, “That was the most fun I’ve ever had in my entire life.”

Not minding that they were in the middle of the hall, Sandor lowered his head and kissed her, slow and heavy. 

That had been a mistake, Sandor realized, once he heard Wylis Manderly’s thick voice announce, “Lord Commander, what say you? Is it time for the bedding?”

“Oh no,” Sansa giggled into his chest. 

Whether she was intoxicated from the folkish dance or the spiced wine Sandor did not know. But what he did know was that his stomach would need to be sliced open in half again before he’d allow every man in the hall to strip Sansa of her dress.

Curling his arms around her possessively, Sandor found the bastard sitting on the dais brooding, even in the midst of a wedding feast. He rose from his chair, gave a curt nod, then departed through the rear exit of the hall. 

The wide oak and iron doors to the Great Hall opened just then, and a stupefied guard scurried inside. “My lady...and lord...there’s…uh...there’s…”

Still outraged by the thought of a bedding ceremony, Sandor shouted, “Bloody hell, lad, spit it out!”

The guard opened his mouth to speak, but it was another voice that filled the suddenly silent hall. 

“My, my, my, what a pleasant surprise after that  _ grueling _ northbound journey. We all know how much I love weddings.” Upon hobbling into the Great Hall, the unexpected visitor stole a cup off the nearest trestle table and raised it high in the air. Grinning impishly, Tyrion Lannister said, “A toast to the newlyweds: Sandor Clegane and Lady Sansa Stark, may all your ups and downs come only in the bedchamber.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration for that dancing bit was definitely from "An Irish Party in Third Class" from Titanic. ;)


	18. Sansa IX

An empty flagon flew across the Great Hall in a hazy blur and struck the wall with a startling clank, triggering her vertigo. Sansa lost her balance and clutched onto the closest person her hands could find — Tormund Giantsbane. The wildling took a meaty arm around her waist with an eagerness that was far from innocent, and helped her back onto her feet. He might have never let go had Sansa not wriggled out of his handy grip. 

If her husband hadn’t already been going mad, he certainly would have upon witnessing _that_. But he didn’t notice, for he was too preoccupied with hurling a second flagon into the hearth and flipping over an empty bench. The frightening rumble echoed above in the rafters, sounding like the roof itself was caving in, followed by another sound more threatening still.

“Three bloody years!” Sandor bellowed inside the silent, bewildered hall. He turned to the Imp with two clenched fists. “Three years you’ve been missing and you come here on my fucking wedding night!”

Undaunted by Sandor’s wrath, Tyrion downed the contents of the cup in his hand and set it down on a trestle table wearing a satisfied smile. “Consider the debt paid, Clegane. You left during the Battle of the Blackwater, forcing me to lead a sortie out past the city walls. The scar that you see on my face, and the nose you do not, are as much your doing as Ser Mandon’s and, let us not forget, my sweet sister’s.”

Sansa could hear her husband’s teeth grinding together. Before Tyrion would be next to be thrown across the hall, she stumbled forward and placed a hand on Sandor’s hunched shoulder. The touch, as simple as it was, prompted him to unclench his fists and relax his jaw. He looked at her, eyes heavy with remorse, then released a dispirited sigh.

“The solar,” was all he said, before lacing his fingers through hers and escorting her out the hall.

She tripped over her own feet as they walked towards the ajar oak and iron doors, intoxicated from overindulging in spiced wine. Her body felt loose and clumsy, but her mind did not. If anything, the wine sharpened her mental acuity. Sansa scrutinized the unexpected visitor, Tyrion Lannister, as they walked towards him. It had only been three years since she saw him last, but he had aged ten years in that time. He had grown out a pale blonde beard, his nose looked worse than it had just after it had been cut off during the Battle of the Blackwater, and his stare was more disconcerting than it had been on their wedding night. But most curious of all was what he wore around his neck — a chain of linked golden hands. 

_He’s Cersei’s Hand,_ she thought, impulsively, until she observed his companions standing outside the Great Hall, each of whom were garbed in armor not custom to Westeros. _No, not Cersei, but the one we’ve all heard about. The dragon queen._

At an utter loss, Sansa stared at the dwarf with her mouth agape, tripping once more. Sandor swiftly picked her up into his arms before descending the steps and carried her towards the Great Keep.

As they left the comforting ambience of the feast, she discovered snowflakes decorating the yard, as a snow storm brewed in. Sansa looked over Sandor’s shoulder and watched as Tyrion, along with his small retinue, followed them out. _What does he want?_ she wondered, before correcting herself. _What does his_ **_dragon queen_ ** _want?_

Her husband carried her in silence towards the solar with a demeanor nearly as vacant as Bran’s. _He is lost in his thoughts,_ she knew, _but what thoughts could those be?_

Before they were halfway across the yard, the wildlings returned to playing their rousing tunes. _I should be consummating my marriage with my husband,_ Sansa thought with dismay, as she twirled a lock of his dark hair around her finger. _I shouldn’t be holding council with my first one._

Moping inside the dreary solar and sitting with his hands clasped tightly atop the desk was Jon. 

Only then did Sandor break his silence to issue a snarling, mirthless laugh.

 _Jon knew Tyrion would come,_ she realized, recalling the lecture he had given her regarding duty as they danced earlier that night. It had been amusing to her then, hilarious even, but that all changed as they entered the solar — it was infuriating. _Jon was preparing me for something, but what?_

Upon gingerly placing her down into a chair beside the desk, Sandor stood behind her and firmly placed his hands on her shoulders. That’s when Sansa saw it: a parchment beside Jon’s clasped hands, and the broken red wax seal. 

Tyrion waddled in alone and shut the door, leaving his stolid men to stand outside in the corridor. “Unsullied,” the Imp began, as he sat in the chair beside her. “They may come across as dull, but they are certainly fine traveling partners — quiet, obedient, and I need not fear them raping anyone.”

“Slavery is outlawed in Westeros, my lord,” said Sansa, earnestly.

“Indeed, Lady Sansa, but the Unsullied are no longer slaves. Queen Daenerys has given them their freedom.” Tyrion reached over and grabbed the mug sitting atop the desk, sighing once he discovered it was empty. “The Unsullied serve her willingly.”

Sansa looked again at the golden necklace. “And you’re her Hand?”

The Imp grinned. “I am.” He lifted his eyes and considered Sandor for a brief moment, tilting his head. “Now, how is it that _you_ convinced the Lord Commander to wed the lady?”

“I dueled Gareth Umber for her hand,” Sandor said, his words dripping with spite. “That’s how, dwarf.”

“Gareth Umber...” Tyrion stroked his unkempt facial hair. “Was he the Umber who once tracked down a man for taking his whore?”

“That’s the one,” her husband seethed. 

Tyrion drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “Where might I find this Gareth Umber?” 

The question had been directed to Jon, but it was Sandor who answered. “You can find him outside the walls, burnt to a crisp.”

“Ah,” the Imp uttered with disappointment. “I could have used his sleuthing prowess. I’ve been searching for a woman for years. Perhaps Gareth Umber would have known where whores go.” Tyrion sighed. “A pity.”

“A _pity_?!” 

Sansa placed her hand on top of Sandor’s in another effort to dampen his rage. Sansa eyed Jon’s sulky demeanor before asking, “Why did Daenerys send you, Tyrion?”

“The Hound and Sansa Stark. The bear and the maiden fair,” Tyrion pronounced, disregarding her question. “My own wife, wedded to my own family's pet.”

Agile considering her inebriated state, Sansa turned in her seat and grabbed Sandor’s jerkin with two desperate hands before he could lumber forward at the Imp. And in that same instant, Jon had shot up from his seat and drew his Valyrian steel sword. 

That did nothing to drain Sandor’s frustrations. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, bastard?” 

“Lord Tyrion will not be harmed,” Jon said gravely. The edge of his sword was so sharp it hurt Sansa’s eyes to even look at it. 

Sandor snorted. “Or what? You’ll kill me, is that it?” 

“I gave my word to Daenerys Targaryen that he would not be harmed. If killing is what I must do to uphold my honor, then so be it.”

Sansa felt her blood drain from her face. “Stop it!” she blurted out. “The three of you are acting like foolish children!”

“The lady has the right of it,” Tyrion admitted, though Sansa could still detect a hint of mockery in his tone. “Clegane, you have my formal apologies. I am, indeed, aware that Petyr Baelish paid the High Septon quite a bit of gold to annul my marriage with Lady Sansa in secret. It was a jape - a poor one, I’ll admit. Shall we start over?”

While she was grateful Sandor didn’t decide to follow through with his impulses, that was mainly due to the fact that he was too preoccupied with glaring at Jon. It was not until her brother sheathed his sword did Sandor look away.

Tyrion smiled, a bit nervously. “Now, Lord Commander, who shall have the honor?”

Jon made to speak, but first took a deep breath. “Sansa, let’s pay our respects to Robb and father.”

“I visited the crypt yesterday,” Sansa said, bemused. “Have you forgotten that it's my wedding night?”

“It won’t take long.” Jon gave Sandor one last cautious glance before striding out the door.

Begrudgingly, she made to stand from the chair until Sandor started to knead her shoulders. The sensation sent a blissful chill down her spine, evoking a profound emotional release. Sansa closed her eyes and tilted back her head when he dug in deeper. The strength in those hands and how seamlessly they worked her muscles elicited small satisfied whimpers to pass her lips. 

Until suddenly, Sansa remembered they were not alone. 

Her eyes shot open. Tyrion Lannister was watching them with an expression that was equally as intrigued as it was horrified. Before she could excuse herself, Sandor lifted her from the chair and turned her around to face him.

“I’ll wait for you in our chambers after I speak with the buggering dwarf.” 

The thought of him and Tyrion alone together in the solar deeply unsettled her. “Sandor, I—”

He gripped her bottom with both hands. Without so much as bothering to whisper, Sandor said, “Then I’ll feast on your cunt until first light.”

Coming from behind her, Sansa heard Tyrion shift in his seat and murmur, “Dear, cruel gods.”

Had she not been dreading what conversation awaited her in the crypt, that might have made her giggle. Sansa stood on her toes to kiss her husband, tongue and all, and stumbled over her feet as she exited the solar.

Outside in the corridor beside the small group of Unsullied soldiers, Jon stood with a frown and offered her his hand. _How dare he do this to me on my wedding night,_ she thought. _Could it not have waited until the morning?_ In a sour mood, Sansa passed him right by and tottered forward towards the stairs.

They walked through the blustery yard towards the First Keep where the ironwood door leading to the crypts was located. Upon entering, Jon took the torch off the sconce beside the entrance and guided their way down the narrow, spiral stone steps. Twice she had almost tumbled down the stairs, not because of the wine, but because of the thick skirts of her wedding gown. Against her will, Jon took her arm in his and assisted her onto the level where statues of their father and elder brother had been installed soon after destroying the Boltons. Neither of their bodies had been recovered, so there had been no need for a tomb. It sickened her to know their bones would never return to where they belonged. And what made it worse, their likeness carved into the stone was poorly done. Even the direwolves that had been carved to lay at their feet did not look authentic. 

_Whoever constructed these statues never met my father, nor my brother, and certainly never found themselves too close to Ghost._ While she silently made the decision she would have their carvings remade, Jon breathed in deeply through his nose and began.

“We need to go north.”

Sansa looked at the stone face that was meant to resemble Lord Eddard Stark and felt her heart stammer. She knew who Jon was referring to, and she knew what was north.

 _Duty,_ she remembered his lecture. _But it was not mine he was speaking of._

“No,” she said, with the same sternness as their late father. “No.”

“Your husband is a lord now, Sansa, which means he has the duties of a lord. He and I, along with a few others, will leave on the morrow to go beyond the Wall.”

Sansa turned away from the two poor renditions and swung her hand, slapping Jon’s face with all her strength. Neither the glove she wore nor the mulled wine could dampen the sting in her palm.

Jon didn’t flinch, but the flames on the torch he held swayed about madly. “Sansa—”

“What, pray tell, do you take me for — a stupid little girl?” Her venomous words echoed off the tombs of Starks past. “Do you think I cannot see what you are doing? Taking him to the Wall when the Others march south to have him killed!”

“As long as the Wall stands, the Others cannot pass.”

Sansa placed a hand on her eldest brother’s stone arm to regain balance. A thousand thoughts passed through her mind in that split second, with each and every one of them centered around Sandor. “If they can’t pass, then why have you let the northern lords stay here all this time? Winter town is near bursting with men. And fortifying the castle...why have you—”

“Before Bran, all I knew was that the dead were coming,” Jon interrupted with a deep melancholy. “I’ve seen them, as have the wildlings and others from the Night’s Watch. There are hundreds of thousands of them, Sansa. If the Others destroy the Wall, the strength of every able man in the Seven Kingdoms might not be enough to…”

Upon Jon trailing off and regarding their father’s effigy as if he hoped it would provide him some counsel, Sansa studied him with a critical squint. “I imagine it would take more than a hundred thousand dead men to bring down the Wall.”

“It need not take one dead man, only one horn.”

“A _horn_?” That didn't make any sense. _Instead of bedding my husband on my wedding night, I’m speaking of dead men and horns with Jon in the crypts._ She felt the sudden urge to slap him again, perhaps even kick him, anything to take that perpetual somber expression off his face. But instead, Sansa kept her arms and legs to herself and awaited his explanation.

“Joramun’s horn, the horn of winter — it belonged to the King-Beyond-the-Wall thousands of years ago. The wildlings believe that blowing the horn will bring down the Wall. That is why when the Others returned, the wildlings searched for it themselves so they might seek refuge south of the Wall, though to no avail. But Joramun’s horn is out there, and we must find it before the Others do.”

“If the wildlings couldn’t find it, how do you expect to do so? How do you plan on avoiding the _hundreds of thousands_ of dead men?”

Jon lowered the torch, casting elongated shadows on the vaulted ceiling. “Because Bran told me where we need to go.” 

Sansa stood there, rigid with terror, as still as the dead Starks. “I’m growing weary of prophecy and visions. Bran never mentioned Sandor would be killed in the duel, only that he won.”

“Perhaps he didn’t know. He can’t see everything, Sansa. I’ve asked him about...other matters, and he could not tell me how they would unfold. The past and present he reads like a book, but it’s not the same for what is to come.”

“He knew,” she said, almost in anguish. “Bran placed his hand on mine a second before Gareth Umber’s sword sliced my husband in half!”

Jon sighed. “Then perhaps Bran was showing you mercy by not telling you.”

“I’d sooner have the truth than mercy.” Sansa’s dewey eyes left her father’s statue to regard the man who looked more like Eddard Stark than the carving ever could. “And I’d sooner have you stop keeping secrets from me. You knew Tyrion was coming.”

“I did,” he admitted at once. “Daenerys Targaryen has arrived at Dragonstone, seeking the Iron Throne, as is her birth right.”

 _This game for the throne will never end,_ she thought, as her head began to pound like the wildling’s drums inside the Great Hall. “The Iron Throne lies in the south,” she began. “So why is her Hand here in the North?”

“Sending Tyrion was an act of good faith — Daenerys relies on his counsel. Should we not retrieve the horn before the Others, she has agreed to fly north with her three dragons while her armies set sail.” He turned to face her. The torchlight danced dangerously close to his face, but he didn’t seem to mind. It was almost as if he longed for its touch. “Daenerys Targaryen will fight with us.”

 _He reveres her._ That was easy to see. It was in the tone of his voice and in the way his eyes suddenly became more intense. _He may even love her._ “Why will she not come now?”

“Her priority is Cersei Lannister. She will not risk her men and dragons to stop the Others if the Wall stops them for her.”

 _Her caution is justified,_ _but more so vexing._ Sansa exhaled, despondent and sober. “I expect that she will ask for something in return.”

Jon did not hesitate. “She has requested for the northmen and the knights of the Vale to travel south and fight alongside her armies in King’s Landing.”

_Not only will Sandor go to the Wall, but should we escape the threat of the Others, he will have the duty of a lord to lead the northmen south._

Sansa laughed humorlessly. “Northbound, southbound, then where, Jon? Shall we seek passage for Essos? Or perhaps we should try our luck and sail west.”

“Queen Daenerys has agreed to grant the North its independence, Sansa.” The defensiveness in his tone was staggering. “That is not something Cersei is like to grant.”

For a moment, she could do nothing but stare at him. **_Queen_ ** _Daenerys,_ she noted in silence. _It_ **_is_ ** _more than reverence._

“You have yet to meet her. How can you trust her?”

“I can’t explain how, but I do,” he said, returning to his somber self. Jon turned to face the statues. “Sandor and I leave on the morrow. You’ve wedded him, and you still have tonight—”

“On my wedding night.” Sansa spoke in a voice as soft as a ghost’s whisper. “You tell me this on my wedding night.” 

He didn’t respond. His eyes were closed, as if he was lost in prayer. Staring at him made her eyes well up with tears, tears of anger and disgust and fear. They were hopeless tears, tears of submission. 

Through her blurry eyes, she stared at Robb and her father. _Duty and honor, but what of love?_ she thought, but she already knew the answer to that. 

Some seconds later, Sansa said, “Jon.” Her bottom lip was trembling. Once his eyes opened, she took a long, shuddering breath and continued. “If anything happens to my husband, anything at all, not even the little of the blood we do share can ever make me forgive you.”

Bound by duty, bound by honor, Jon Snow nodded the once, then bowed his head in silent prayer.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The zestful music from the Great Hall still filled the late night snowy air as Sansa entered the Lord and Lady’s chambers. Furthest from the entrance stood a large canopy featherbed, its bedposts as thick as the trunks of small trees and engraved with a charming pattern of weirwood branches and leaves. The brazier sat in the middle of the wall adjacent to the bed between two shuttered windows. And in front of the lively blaze inside the brazier sat her husband. He sat with his back against the foot of the bed, and his elbows propped up on his knees, holding his head between his palms as he peered into the flames.

Upon her entering, he didn’t look up. _Tyrion told him,_ she knew at once. A part of her feared that he was rueing the decision of marrying her and adopting the duties of a lord. But another part of her, a wiser part, knew him better than that. 

Sansa latched the door, then minced her way up to him. “Sandor.”

“All I see is fire,” he said, never looking away from the orange serpents swaying inside the hearth, “wicked, bloody fire.”

“Sandor.”

“Why bring me back?” he asked, though she knew he was not speaking to her. His hair fell past his face, making it impossible for her to see his expression from the side. Even so, the tone of his voice could not be hidden, and it was as equally incensed as it was pained.

She kneeled down beside him and placed a tender hand on his arm. “Sandor.”

“Show me something, you buggering fire god.”

Sansa emitted a small sigh. _Words won’t do_ , she realized. _It’s not talking that he wants, nor is it what he needs._

She rose from the ground steadily, with a confidence that was more like to have been born of the inevitability of him leaving her than of the spiced wine. Sansa had been bold with him before, several times even, but the idea at the forefront of her mind rose color to her cheeks all the same.

It was apt for her to feel as shy as a maiden on her wedding night, if only for a few passing seconds. Though, it wouldn’t stop her from bringing her idea to fruition.

Her bride’s gown fell onto her feet like a mound of snow. Sansa lifted her shift over her head and removed her ivory heeled shoes. By the time Sandor looked away from the fire, she was left only in her smallclothes. The heat coming from the brazier reminded her of their first time together inside the cave, intimately warming her near nakedness. But Sandor’s gaze burned hotter, still. Sansa slid the silk past her hips, then took a step forward.

Starting at his temple, she slowly combed her fingers through his hair, eliciting a deep, satisfied moan. He closed his eyes in response as she massaged his scalp, much like she had done inside the solar. Kindling that same emotional release, Sansa could feel the tense energy leaving his body. Once his hands began to explore her legs, she yanked his head back against the featherbed with an assertiveness that might have made him laugh in another situation. But not then. His eyes were gleaming, not with amusement, but with an aching desire for her to continue. Sansa obliged and took that last step forward, planting her feet outside of his hips, then placed her sex onto his mouth.

That first slow, methodical lick spread open her lips, inducing first a gasp, then a whimper, then finally a tremulous moan. Sandor’s hands trailed up to her thighs and squeezed, firmly positioning her there in front of him. Though his fingers were digging into her skin, it only heightened the sensation of him tongue-kissing her slit as if it were her mouth. Following each smooth kiss, his pursed lips created a gentle suction which pulled on her nub and tugged on her folds. Sandor would accompany each tantalizing pull and tug with a quick flick of his tongue, then parted his lips to kiss her sex before doing it all over again.

Sansa did not only whimper, nor did she only moan - she cried out his name and let loose a curse. Unable to suppress the urge any longer, Sansa grabbed onto the bedpost with both hands and rocked her hips back and forth over his tongue, tossing her head back upon the sensation of his nose rubbing against her swollen little bud. While she was in control of the speed at which she fucked his face, Sandor’s hands seized either of her cheeks and followed along with her grinding. Dominating a man so large and powerful in that manner felt euphoric, even more so than straddling him and riding his cock. He was at her mercy; Sansa was in charge of the pace and pressure, selfishly chasing her peak. And judging by the way Sandor eagerly thrusted his tongue inside of her as she rocked her hips back and forth, he seemed to thoroughly enjoy being the submissive.

The more she cried out his name, the more he growled into her folds with devilish delight. When one hand abruptly released its firm hold on her cheek, Sansa opened her eyes and looked down.

While he kissed and sucked and licked, Sandor loosened the laces of his breeches with his right hand and pulled out his cock. Sansa had never seen him so aroused. His manhood jutted upwards with immense longing, tempting her to lower herself down and feel it stretch open her walls. She considered it until he started to glide his hand up and down his cock. 

He was pleasuring himself as he pleasured her, stroking his cock as he stroked her nub with the tip of his tongue. They moaned in unison, matching the others rhythm. Soon their movements became hasty, as if it were a game of who could reach their peak first. When Sansa slowed down, so did he. When she sped up, his hand followed suit. It was as beautiful as it was stimulating, to feel so connected to him. Not a word needed to be said, they just knew. 

Lost in her pleasure, Sansa’s hands found their way to her breasts, pulling down the silken smallclothes that still covered them. The sensation of her breasts spilling out evoked another curse to pass her lips, and then several more once she started to pinch her own nipples while writhing on his tongue. 

While his right hand busied itself with his cock, his left hand remained on her ass, caressing, spanking, and squeezing until her skin felt raw. It wouldn’t be much longer, she knew, not at all. Every fiber in her body was being fondled or fucked, one way or another. But Sansa didn’t want it to end, she wanted to keep it going. She wanted to pull back just before her peak and ride his face until first light seeped through the shutters. But once he slid one finger in between her cheeks, rubbing her opening in cadence with the flicks of his tongue and the strokes of his hand, Sansa grasped onto the bedpost, convulsed on top of him, and succumbed to her pleasure.

The next thing she knew, she was on her back with her knees bent and touching her breasts, lying mere inches away from the brazier. Sandor did not bother to remove a single item of clothing, not even his dagger which hung off his loosened breeches. With his cock primed and ready, he positioned himself between her legs, pressed her knees back as far as they could go, and dug into her. Every thrust he delivered was more desperate than the last. It was more than just lust and hunger. He was fucking her like it would be the last time. When her eyes lifted from the cock driving into her and fell onto his face, she discovered that he was watching her, not her breasts, nor her sex, but _her_. Their eyes met, and that profound connection sparked her to peak again at once.

Sansa was half in a daze when he started to spill inside her, watching a bead of sweat trail down his wrinkled forehead while he cursed and moaned during his release. As his seed was filling her insides, his sweat dripped from his brow and glistened on her skin in the firelight. She had never felt nor seen something quite so beautiful.

Sandor collapsed on top of her, supporting his weight with his elbows while his steadying breaths mingled into the crook of her neck. His cock was softening inside of her. Every few seconds, Sansa would squeeze her sex around him and smile when he jolted and cursed. She ran her fingers through his hair, played with the sheathed dagger hanging off his breeches with her foot, and soon found herself dozing off to sleep.

On the cusp of entering a dream, she felt a chill on her neck, followed by hearing Sandor whisper, “Bloody fucking hell.”

Sansa opened her heavy eyes, discovering that he had lifted his head and was looking into the brazier. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice dry and hoarse. Sansa could see the reflection of the animated flames in his eyes. When he didn’t respond, when his eyes grew wider as he scrutinized the brazier relentlessly, she cleared her throat. “Sandor, what do you see?”

Staring ahead, unblinking, he said, “You...me...our little girl.”


	19. Sandor X

His wife packed his bedroll with a coy little smile, a smile that he wanted to kiss, a smile that he wanted to fuck. 

His blood started to pump, causing him to wince. _Four times wasn’t enough,_ he thought, as he tightened the cinch on his horse’s saddle. _A thousand times wouldn’t have been enough, not when I’ll be gone for three bloody fortnights._

“What are you smiling about, little bird?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.” Sansa lifted her eyes away from the saddle bag, biting her lip once she met his gaze. 

Unable to resist her allure, he walked around Stranger, grabbed Sansa’s hips, and tossed her over his shoulder. Sansa screamed in playful protest, hitting his back with as much force as the snowflakes alighting on his face. 

“Tell me, girl, or I’ll carry you with me to the Wall.”

“Well then, I’m never telling!” she giggled.

He spanked her arse, paying no mind to the many others in the courtyard. “You’ll tell me now. I’m your lord husband, remember? Isn’t that what you were calling me last night?”

“Sandor! Be quiet!” 

“What, little bird? With how loud you were, they already heard you.”

Sansa squirmed in his hold, giggling all the while. “You’re awful!”

“I thought I was _so good,_ ” he said, making his voice high-pitched to mimic her own, _“oh so good._ ”

“Stop, stop, stop,” she urged him in hushed tones.

“You weren’t saying that last night either, little bird. You—”

Their amusement was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. 

“I’ve come to say farewell to my sister.”

He turned around with his hand still resting on Sansa’s arse and observed the bastard of Winterfell, tight-mouthed and humourless as ever. The yard became quiet, Sandor realized. It was no secret the disdain he and Jon Snow felt for one another. _How am I supposed to travel with this brooding bastard for two months?_ He cursed under his breath as he set Sansa down onto her feet. _This will be worse than traveling with Gareth bloody Umber._

To no surprise, Jon took her arm and led her into the stables before speaking with her. As Sandor surveyed the yard, he spied the she-wolf beside the forge saying her own farewells to the young blacksmith. For whatever reason, Jon agreed to let the bastard from King’s Landing come along with them to the Wall, along with some boisterous wildling and his steward. She had her hands on her hips as she spoke to him, she even looked mad. Sandor snorted. _Good. Smack him with your Needle while you’re at it._ Then the bastard wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her in for a kiss. 

A feeling washed over him, equal parts bewildered and furious. Acting out of some newfound paternal instinct, Sandor’s hand went for his dagger, until he saw the she-wolf wrap her arms around the boy’s neck and savor his kiss. Sandor dropped his hand and looked away. 

_She’s not a little girl any longer,_ he told himself. _She’s the same age Sansa was when I first met her._ That only made him feel worse. His mind betrayed him, conjuring up images of the child he saw in the flames and imagining her as a woman grown. In four-and-ten years, Sandor could be watching his own daughter take a lord’s affections in that very same yard.

Incensed, Sandor turned around and caught the bastard’s hands traveling down her back — too far down.

He had let it go on long enough. “Arya,” Sandor called out in his sternest voice. The name sounded strange leaving his mouth. “Get over here.”

The boy pulled away from her lips with urgency, but all she did was look over at him with a frown. Sandor beckoned her over to which she muttered something to the bastard before shuffling her way towards him. 

Arya crossed her arms and huffed. “What do _you_ want?”

 _I wanted that bastard to take his hands off you,_ he thought, but said instead, “Go bid your brother farewell.”

“I already did!”

“Bid me farewell, then.”

She rolled her eyes. “Try not to die...again.”

Sandor would have clouted her on the head for that, but decided that it could wait until he returned. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders in a half hug, meeting no resistance from the she-wolf, and said, “If the dwarf tries anything with my wife, kill him for me.”

“I will,” she said, not in her usual tone, but as soft as a girl of four-and-ten. Until she brusquely added, “Now let me go.”

He chuckled as he released her. “You better learn to respect me, girl. That bastard of yours is coming with me. Gendry, is it? Might be I tie him to a tree beyond the Wall to distract the Others while we search for this bloody horn.”

Arya kicked him in the shin. “That’s not funny, you ugly shit!”

“I didn’t say it to be funny!” He tapped the side of her head. “Learn some bloody manners!”

Sansa joined them just then, no longer giggling, nor smiling. In silence, she took his hand in hers and intertwined their fingers. Her face was still, but once Jon Snow said, “Open the gates!”, Sansa broke into a sob.

The sight sent a dagger through his heart. Sandor pulled her into a tight embrace and kissed the top of her head. “I’ll come back, do you hear me? I saw us, little bird. All three of us.” He placed his hand on her belly. There was no swell yet, but if what he saw in the flames was true… _No, not_ **_if_** _. It is true._ He refused to believe otherwise. “I’m coming back.”

She nodded against his chest, but his reassurances did nothing to quell her sobs.

Sandor was on the verge of crying himself, though he knew that would comfort her either. At a loss, he lifted up her chin and said, “I swear it, Sansa.”

Snowflakes landed on her lashes as she blinked away tears. “You and Jon,” she sniffled, “be kind to one another. Please.”

_Gods, she’s so bloody innocent._

“I won’t swing at him,” Sandor promised, with a slight smile, “not first.”

That made her giggle. It was the only sound that could mend the wound in his heart. But Sandor knew that once he rode out the gates that wound would open right back up. He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers, tasting the salt of her tears and the sweetness that always came with kissing Sansa Stark. The kiss endured, and then it deepened. Her tongue slipped into his mouth, he sucked on her bottom lip, and he might have laid her onto the snow and fucked her in the middle of the yard had the bastard not called out, “Clegane!”

“This bloody bastard,” he grumbled under his breath. “I’ll…” He trailed off once he met Sansa’s pleading eyes. “I’ll be kind.” 

_As kind as he is to me._

Her face dimpled into a sad smile, as she brushed his scars with her thumb. “Three fortnights,” she whispered. 

He kissed her once more. “Or sooner.”

It took every ounce of will power he had to unwrap his arms and mount his horse. Sansa scratched Stranger behind the ear and said, “Ride well and true.”

A thought suddenly occurred to him. Sandor reached into his saddle bag and pulled out his helm.

“Take it.”

Sansa looked at it, bewildered, and shook her head. “What if you need it?”

“If we do run into the Others, a helm won’t make any difference. Take it, little bird.”

She cradled it in her arms, as gently as if it were a babe. “I love you,” she said, crying.

The wound ripped open, and that hole in his heart would be left to bleed and rot for three fortnights straight. “I love you, little bird.” Sandor gestured towards her belly. “And her, too.”

With that, he rode off, urging his horse into a trot towards the grim-faced bastard who awaited him at the gates. While exiting, Sandor looked over his shoulder once more and memorized the sight. The entire yard was full of shades of white and grey and black and brown, but then there was that single brilliant shade of red. Sansa exuded more than just beauty, she exuded everything good in the world. And he was leaving it. In the last glimpse he had of her, Sansa was clutching his helm to her breast, leaning against her sister, and sobbing underneath the drifting snow.

He suppressed his own tears and galloped towards the Kingsroad.

The weather favored them that morning, but Sandor did not expect that to last long, not when they were headed towards the source of the storms that froze over half of Westeros. The men were silent for the most part, aside from the wildling who couldn’t refrain from sharing a lewd jape every so often. The hours dragged on and on; three fortnights without Sansa felt as daunting as another three years. 

Dusk fell, but they pressed on. The only one whinging about stopping was the blacksmith. _If he survives this journey to and from the Wall, it’ll be a bloody miracle._ Sandor started to wonder if _that_ had been the reason Snow had brought him along. _A cunning way to have the boy killed for kissing his little sister._

Two hours after dusk, they did stop, though it had not been willingly. If the horses did not rest, it would only be another hour before one broke a leg. And the man who lost his horse in the land of always-bloody-winter was like to die right along with it.

There was wind and snow, but it wouldn’t be enough to prevent them from lighting a fire. Perhaps for the first time since he was a boy, Sandor was eager to be near a fire, not for warmth, but to try his luck and read the flames again. He’d always loathe fire, that would never change, but if he could see the little bird in the flames, if he could see their daughter, he could find it within himself to hate it a little less.

While the steward, wildling, and blacksmith went to gather firewood, he and Jon fed and watered the horses. Occasionally they would glare at one another, but neither said a thing. _‘Be kind to one another’,_ he remembered Sansa’s words. It had not yet been a day and the wound inside his chest was festering. _Gods, my little bird…three bloody fortnights._

As Sandor made to remove his horse’s saddle to brush out his coat, he discovered that there was something tucked inside his bedroll — a white slip of fabric sticking out just slightly. When he pulled it out, a hearty chuckle escaped him. 

_The little bird’s smallclothes._ He caressed the silken fabric in his hand. _That’s what she was smiling about._

He held the silk to his nose and drew in a deep breath. Just as soon as he was exhaling, groaning as his lungs emptied, his cock was primed, conditioned to fuck upon the singular scent of Sansa lingering inside his nose. _Fuck._ The wound in his chest felt all but rotten. He considered mounting his horse and riding back to Winterfell just to swipe his nose up and down her cunt. Sansa had slipped her smallclothes into his bedroll as a gift, but a bittersweet gift it was. The smell of her made him want to bury himself inside her. The smell of her made him want to curse the gods and cry. 

“Put them away before the others see.”

Sandor opened his eyes. Standing a pace away was Jon Snow, frowning, much like the she-wolf did when she would be thinking of ways to kill him. He was as quiet as that albino wolf of his when he moved, but he wasn’t the slightest bit as threatening. And to Sandor’s gratification, the bastard had sent the northern beast ahead of them to scour for any possible threat along the Kingsroad.

And with the others gone, it was only him and one miserable bastard. 

Sandor lowered the silk and rolled back his shoulders. “I think I’ll hold onto them a bit longer.”

“I said put them away.”

“You don’t give me orders. I’m a lord now, you said it yourself.”

Jon’s face was still as stone. “You may be a lord, but I will not allow you to disrespect my sister.”

Sandor gave a grim chuckle. “These are my _wife’s_ , bastard.” He held up the silk in his fist. “And my _wife_ gave them to me. If I want to hold them, if I want to lick them and rub them on my cock, I will. Now bugger off.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, a few passing seconds, and then Jon’s fist came swinging. Despite the bastard’s lean build, the punch that landed on Sandor’s chin had enough vigor in it to knock him over an inch. Sandor laughed darkly and then threw a fist back, lamping him square in the jaw. The bastard stumbled back, but quickly regained balance and lunged forward to deliver a second strike. Sandor caught the fist in his hand and shoved back with enough force to cause Jon to fall into the snow. As lithe as he was lean, Jon stood up and made to swing again, until the wildling ran up and tackled him onto the ground.

“If you wanted a fight, crow, you should have asked me!” Tormund howled with laughter.

“You don’t deserve my sister!” Jon shouted from the ground. 

“No?” Sandor spat blood into the snow. “Why did you let me wed her, then, _bastard_?”

Jon did not answer, but there was no need; Sandor knew what it was. _Honor._ _I won the duel, so I won her hand._ He choked back a laugh, until he remembered Sansa’s words. _‘Be kind to one another’._ Guilt crept up on him then, and the ulcerating wound deepened. 

_Fuck._

Afterward, once the campfire had been built, he stared into flames for nigh on two hours, begging in silence. _Show me Sansa. Show me our daughter. Show me bloody anything._ But aside from the wicked orange flames that swayed and dimmed with every breath of icy wind, Sandor saw not a thing. 

The bastard sat across from him beside the steward, peering at the flames, too. Sandor wondered if he ever had a vision; it seemed possible. After all, they were both given another chance at life by the same god. Dondarrion had only been a lord before dying. It wasn’t until he was brought back from death did he have visions much like Thoros. 

_Will it eventually be that way for us? Or will we need to worship the buggering Lord of Light?_

Considering how often Sandor mocked and cursed the gods, he did not think the fire lord was like to grant him visions very often, if ever again. Whether Jon could see anything or not, he could not say. All Sandor knew was that the opportunity to ask him about it had died during their scuffle.

The following morning, both of their faces were bruised, though Jon had the worst of it. 

_‘Be kind to one another’._ It was all he could think about last night — Sansa and her words. The pain inside his chest was unbearable, burning like rampant fire. _What was I supposed to do, let the bastard hit me? Give him a quick clout on the head like I do Arya?_ Jon’s temper was proving to be fiercer than even the she-wolf’s. _It’s that Stark blood, they all have it. I may love ruffling the little bird’s feathers, but I’d be wise not to slight her brother again, else we may return to Winterfell one bastard short._

The second night showed no progress.

While sitting beside the campfire during an ebbing snow storm, chewing on salt beef hard enough to break a tooth, the wildling said, “Crow, when’s the last time you used your member?” 

Jon only brooded at the flames.

“Not since Ygritte?”

Only then did the bastard’s eyes look away, regarding the wildling with a scowl colder than the northern wind. “Tormund, enough.”

That was intriguing. Whoever Ygritte was, the bastard was staunchly defensive of her. So defensive, that the wildling said no more to him after that, allowing Jon to resume his languishing.

“What o’ you?” the free folk man asked the whinging bastard. “You been hammering something besides steel inside that forge, lad?”

Sandor looked at the boy and narrowed his eyes, awaiting his answer. 

“N-No,” Gendry stuttered. He looked first at Jon and then at Sandor and then at Jon again. “I swear it, Lord Commander.”

Jon nodded, but it was evident that his mind was elsewhere. That is, until the wildling turned to Sandor and said, “I know I don’t need to ask you if you been using your member.”

Sandor took a sip from his waterskin, then muttered, “I’m sure you heard me use it plenty.”

While the wilding erupted into a hoot of laughter, Jon jumped up from his seat beside the fire and came at him again, that time with his foot instead of his fist. By the end of the second brawl, they were both bleeding from their noses, and Jon’s left eye was swollen shut.

 _‘Be kind to one another.’_ Sandor laughed to himself that night while the others slept, and then he cried.

After that, the two were never within speaking distance, let alone punching distance. Four days had passed, and not one word had been said between the two of them. While the steward kept Jon company, the jovial wildling insisted on being Sandor’s shadow. It did not matter how curt he was to the man who called himself Tormund Giantsbane, the wildling continued to ask him all sorts of questions, about his scars, about southern women, about Sansa. Sandor answered each with the same answer, “Bugger off.” But it did not matter. His surly attitude only seemed to encourage Tormund. 

On the sixth night, when the Winterfell bastard and the wildling ambled around to gather wood and kindling for a fire, he approached the steward and said, “Who’s Ygritte?” 

The man named Edd scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t think the Lord Commander would want me to speak of her.” Sandor reached into his bag and tossed him a chunk of stale bread. Upon inspecting it, the steward said, “She was a wildling.”

 _There it is_. **_Was_** _._

“A wildling lover, eh?” _So much for honor,_ he thought with dry amusement _._ “How did she die?”

“She attacked Castle Black. Well, not just her. I wish it had only been her. She came with a band of wildlings and was shot by an arrow, not sure whose. The Lord Commander held her in his arms as she was dying, even burned her himself afterwards.” Edd took a bite of the bread, furrowing his brow as he chewed. With a full mouth, he added, “That’s all you’re getting out of me, unless you brought some ale with you.”

Sandor leaned against his horse and stared out at the dark horizon. A feeling came over him. It was the same one he felt when Beric had expressed to him how joyless his existence was after dying so many times. As he watched Jon and Tormund loom out of the darkness, he thought, _Was the bastard always so sullen before this wildling girl?_ Most northmen were hot-tempered, Sandor quickly learned, but he did not doubt the bastard’s temper worsened after losing his wildling lover.

_What would I be like if Sansa…_

A wave of pain washed over him. Sandor shuddered at the thought.

All night he was left wondering, all night the guilt ate him alive. _‘Be kind to one another.’_ Sandor caressed the silken smallclothes in his hand, as he did every night. Pondering was futile; he knew what he needed to do. Amends needed to be made, for Sansa’s sake. So the next morning, one grueling week after leaving Winterfell, he mounted his horse and fell in beside his good brother.

“Leave us,” Sandor ordered the steward. 

The dour man looked at Jon. “Lord Commander—”

“It’s alright, Edd,” Jon Snow interrupted. “Ride along with the others.”

Once the steward turned his horse around, Sandor begrudgingly started by saying, “If you told me the only way I could keep Sansa safe from the Others is to stay beyond the Wall and guard this buggering horn for the rest of my life, I would.”

“As you should,” said Jon, keeping his gaze aimed north.

“I died for her dueling Gareth Umber, and I’d die for her again.” When there was no response, Sandor decided to go all in. “If Sansa died in my arms, I’d be more miserable than you.”

The bastard looked away from the Kingsroad, wearing a scowl. “You’re walking on thin ice, Clegane.”

“You think I don’t deserve your sister, is that it?” Sandor asked once he had his attention. “Did you think I didn't know that? You won’t like hearing this, Snow, but there hasn’t been one time that I fucked her where I didn’t lay there afterward and think, Why me? I don’t deserve her, not even a little, but if you think I’d ever hurt or disrespect her, if you think I’d ever treat her like Joffrey or Littlefinger or Gareth fucking Umber, you’re bloody mad!”

The words were said far too viciously; Sandor expected to see a Valyrian steel edge come swinging at his throat. But instead, Jon regarded him in silence. As they rode along, Sandor could scarcely hear the three men behind them muttering to one another, until the wind carried away their words. Just when he thought the bastard would never speak, Jon said, “The woman who died in my arms, her name was Ygritte...kissed by fire.”

“Kissed by fire?” Sandor snorted. “You could say I’m kissed by fire.”

Rather than become volatile, Jon only sighed. “Her hair was bright red, so the wildlings said that she was kissed by fire. The free folk consider red hair lucky beyond the Wall. She was unconventionally beautiful, unconventional in every way, and I fell in love with her. I laid with her and broke my vows, and then I watched her die. I felt her body go limp in my arms.” He paused and dropped his head, as if reliving that moment, before adding, “Being stabbed to death by my own men hurt less. And then I watched Sansa experience the same pain. When she sat beside you in the yard, I listened to her lie to herself, much like I did when I held Ygritte. It’s all you can do in that moment — lie, for yourself, as much as for the one you love. The moment was similar in many ways, more than I care to admit. When I pulled her away from you and gave the order to remove your corpse, do you know what she said to me?” The bastard’s voice quivered. “She said, ‘You can’t burn him. He hates fire’.”

Sandor felt his throat tighten and quickly looked ahead, as speechless as he was breathless.

A tense minute passed. “I’m haunted by those words. Much like I’m haunted by another’s.”

“The woman you heard,” Sandor began, his voice heavy with emotion, “it wasn’t the one you lost.”

“No, when the red priestess gave me the kiss of life, I heard the voice of a woman I did not know. The words unsettled me then, but once I heard what Sansa said…”

Although Sandor thought he would be better off not knowing, he asked the question, nonetheless. “What did this woman say to you?”

For the first time in days, Jon Snow looked at him without disdain, even a bit fearfully, and said, “Fire and blood.”


	20. Sansa X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to stress this from the get go: there will be *no cheating/love triangle* going on in this fic. You will understand why I'm saying this after reading this chapter. 
> 
> I'm introducing one more original character to this story as well!
> 
> Enjoy!

“Little bird.”

Sansa’s tired eyes fluttered open to the memory of her husband’s voice, as they did every morning. 

_Day twenty one,_ she thought, rolling over in bed to face the pillow beside her. The space was void of her husband, occupied by all she had left of him until he returned - his helm and his Kingsguard cloak. 

She reached out and caressed the cool steel with her fingers, following the curve of the snarling hound’s mouth. “We’re halfway there,” she whispered.

Her mornings began the same way. Sansa tossed the furs from her body to reveal her nakedness and placed the helm onto her breasts, gasping at how cold the steel felt against her skin. Once she secured the helm with her left hand, Sansa spread open her legs, bent them at the knees, and let her right hand meet the mound between her thighs. 

She let out a groggy whimper and closed her eyes, recalling the many provocative memories she had of her husband. She revisited her favorite memory first, when she first gave herself to him inside the cave in the Neck. She thought of how he looked towering above her, how it felt to have him pin her down and spread her open wide. Then she recalled another, the time he bent her over in the snow while she was having her blood and how eagerly he took her from behind. Her sex had been so sensitive that night, as if it were a hundred times more receptive to every thrust; Sandor had never spent himself inside her so fast.

A moan escaped her as she circled two fingers over her nub a little faster, fostering her release. She thought of how his hair felt brushing her face, the sensation of her lips grazing his scars, the way he’d get behind her and massage her one opening with his thumb while sinking his cock into the other. The pressure built, and Sansa clutched the helm until one breast spilled into the snarling mouth. The steel was unforgiving against her delicate skin, but no pain had ever felt so sweet. Her legs extended, her toes curled, her head sank into the pillow, and then Sansa was moaning out his name, riding out her peak. 

Afterward, she was a bit breathless, a bit tingly, a bit numb. She stared blankly at the canopy above her and let the helm gradually fall from her breast. The moment following her release was always a lucid one. She would lay there and think about what needed to be done that day, anticipating what new problems might arise. Every day it was something. The food shortage had been the first complication, a spreading chest cold the second, and then on the third day, her chambermaid had informed her that she was with child after laying with Tormund Giantsbane a month prior. Even so, no matter the dilemma, Sansa handled each of them with finesse.

First she sent a group of men to Castle Cerwyn upon Lady Jonelle’s approval to gather more provisions, then she ordered all those were ill to be sectioned off into the First Keep until the maester deemed them well enough to return to their duties of repairing the castle or training in the yard, and then she allowed her chambermaid to have the mornings to herself to get some extra sleep (which worked in Sansa's favor, too, ensuring that she would not be interrupted while pleasuring herself). 

And then once a minute passed and she had enough mulling over her duties as the Lady of Winterfell, Sansa would think of Sandor, sob, and rise from her bed.

While she was washing her hands and face in the water basin, a quick knock came at the door.

“Bran’s already in the godswood!” Arya shouted, attempting to open the latched door. “Let’s go!”

“Just a moment.” Sansa dried off her face with a cloth, jolting when she heard Arya kick at the door. 

“Hurry up!”

 _These Faceless Men in Braavos may have taught her how to kill, but they certainly did not teach her patience._

Sansa grabbed the white woolen cloak from the bed, wrapped it around her body, then let in her frowning sister before the door would come crashing down.

“Gods, Arya. You need to—”

“—learn some manners,” Arya finished for her, in a mocking tone. “You sound just like the Hound.”

She knew that it was meant as an insult, but it made her smile all the same. “Come in while I dress then instead of beating at the door.” 

As Sansa walked towards the chest at the end of her bed and picked out one of the several newly stitched gowns she had sewn together, Arya walked towards the window and opened the shutters. Dawn had yet to break. 

“I said a prayer for them last night,” Arya said pensively, as she looked out into the darkness. “I prayed that they wouldn’t come across the Others. I prayed that they would find the horn today and come home.”

Sansa did, too. It was all she had done the night prior — pray and wipe her tears away with Sandor’s cloak. “All will be fine,” she said, in an effort to ensure herself as well as her sister. “Bran says the horn is only half a day’s ride from Castle Black.”

“Bran also hasn’t been able to see the Others since last week.”

That was true - terrifyingly so. The further south the Others marched, the more limited Bran’s abilities had become. According to him, there was a leader amongst the dead who he referred to as the Night’s King. The King of the Others could awaken corpses out of the ground and add them to his army, an army of hundreds of thousands. The daunting reminder never failed to make her want to retch. 

Much like there was ancient magic in Bran, there was ancient magic in the Night’s King, and somehow the two interfered with one another. It had been six days since Bran was last able to see beyond the Wall, six days since he had last seen the Others. Fortunately, he could still see south of the Wall and was able to give them a measure of reassurance.

Every morning and evening, she and Arya would meet with him inside the godswood where he would inform them of the men’s progress, along with any setbacks they might have encountered along the way. They were subjected to many cruel storms which caused them to lose hours of travel, but that was expected. What was not expected was when Bran had told her that Sandor and Jon were getting along very well.

That had sounded far too good to be true.

 _Why would he lie?_ Sansa asked herself. _Bran may have proven to be quite cryptic and selective with what he tells us, but he has never said anything that wasn’t true._

It elated her to know that there was no longer bad blood between Sandor and Jon. She wondered what had changed that but Bran didn't have an answer for her. Perhaps the other men had forced them to set aside their differences, or perhaps they had decided it was best not to argue every waking moment for three fortnights straight. Whatever it had been, Sansa was eternally grateful. 

“By the end of today, they will have found the horn,” Sansa declared, hoping to speak it into existence.

“I can’t believe Gendry went,” Arya grumbled under her breath. 

Sansa sighed. Her sister never went longer than an hour without repeating that. 

As Sansa slid on her smallclothes, Arya looked away from the window and stared at her for a moment. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” she said, while stepping into a grey woolen gown. “You’re my sister.” 

Before traveling south, Sansa would never have said such a thing. Years ago, Sansa would have sooner forgotten that Arya was her sister. But the time apart had made them closer than ever, though they did still argue quite a lot. No amount of time would ever change _that_.

“What’s it like to…” Arya trailed off, almost looking embarrassed. 

“To what?”

“To...be with a man.”

Sansa blinked at her, entirely taken aback. “Arya, you’re four-and-ten.”

“I’m not saying I’m going to _do_ it. I’ve just been having these thoughts...and…” Arya squinched up her face, as if the words tasted like acid. “These...feelings…” 

_Much like I started to when I was four-and-ten,_ Sansa thought, suddenly feeling empathetic. _How often did I find myself having indecent thoughts about Sandor in the Red Keep? How often did I wonder what it would be like to lay with him while living in the Vale?_

Sansa sat on the edge of the bed as she laced up her bodice. “With the right man, it’s wonderful,” she admitted.

“How many have you been with?” When Sansa glowered at her, Arya snorted a laugh. “Sorry. Just Harry and the Hound?”

Thinking of the times she laid with a man besides Sandor made her stomach ache. “Yes.”

“Well, you wedded Harry, so you had to lay with him. But why the Hound? He’s not exactly what the whores would call a smallclothes dropper.”

“Arya!” Sansa picked up her boot from the ground and threw it at her. A second later, they both submitted to a fit of laughter. Feeling suddenly faint, Sansa made her way over to the window to join her sister and savored the fresh, crisp air as it entered her lungs. “Sandor is more comely to me than any man I’ve ever met. But that’s not why I chose to lay with him.” 

“So you did it because you love him?”

Sansa looked at her sister, feeling more maternal than sororal. “Because I love him _and_ because I trust him.”

Arya tapped her fingers on the window sill. “I trust Gendry.”

“How old is Gendry?”

“Five-and-ten.”

 _It must be the long hours spent inside the forge that have given him the build of a man of eight-and-ten,_ Sansa thought. “Is he pressuring you?” As soon as the words left her mouth, she added, “Of course he’s not, else you would have stuck him with your sword.”

“I was just curious,” Arya said defensively. “I trust him, but I don’t love him.”

Not even her Faceless Men training could prevent Sansa from detecting _that_ lie. She took her sister’s hands in her own and looked her in the eye. “I’m not mother, and even if I was, no one besides you can make that decision. I trust you know what can happen when you lay with a man.”

“You mean what has happened to you?” Arya said, lowering her eyes. “Your titties look huge.” 

Sansa looked down at her cleavage. “No they don’t.”

“Well, your titties are big in the first place, but I just saw them while you were dressing and they’re definitely bigger.” Arya pulled her hands away and gently poked her in the belly. “The Hound was right - you _are_ carrying his pup.”

Not a day went by that Sansa didn’t pray to the old gods to bless her with a child, the daughter Sandor saw in the flames. _By the grace of the old gods, my belly will be a little rounder once he returns_. “If I do not have my moon’s blood in a week, I’ll inform the maester.”

“We should ask Bran,” Arya suggested, before taking eager strides towards the door. “He might know.”

Sansa looked out the window and admired the sun as it rose in the east, wondering if Sandor was watching it, too. “Yes, we should.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The lone weirwood was weeping that morning, fresh red sap dripping from the crevices of its carved face.

Bran sat in his chair beside the heart tree, running his hand slowly down the bone white bark. “They will reach the Wall in two hour’s time,” he began, the moment she and Arya were within hearing distance, “but I cannot follow them beyond the tunnel at Castle Black.”

 _Of course not,_ Sansa thought, vexed. _T_ _hat would be far too simple, and when has anything ever been simple?_

“Based on what you’ve said before, the Others should still be days away from the Wall,” Sansa thought out loud. “There’s no possible way they’ll cross paths.”

“It would be unlikely,” Bran concurred. His implication that the opposite could happen rose gooseprickles on her skin. “I’ll know on the morrow.”

“If you don’t see them south of the Wall by first light tomorrow, we’re sending a raven to the dragon queen,” said Arya.

Sansa stared at the lamenting tree. “There won’t be any need. They’ll find the horn, and then they’ll come home,” Sansa demanded it of the carved face. She closed her eyes and began a prayer, until she heard the sound of snow crunching underneath quick feet. When Sansa opened her eyes, she found her sister crouched down beside Bran.

“Have you seen Sansa’s pup?” she asked him. “I mean, her daughter?”

Though Arya had been the one to ask the question, Bran turned his face towards Sansa. “No.”

Sansa hung her head and looked at her belly. _So I’m not with child after all,_ she thought, swallowing the lump growing in her throat. _Sandor and I can try again when he comes home. He will come home. He must come home._

“I saw a boy,” Bran added, his voice a hollow whisper inside the godswood, “grey of eye and auburn of hair. A prince.”

“A boy?” Her and Arya looked at one another and knitted their brow. “But, Sandor saw a-”

“The gates, Sansa,” he interrupted.

Before she could ask him what he meant by that, a Winterfell guard ran into the godswood. “My lady! Riders!”

 _It can’t be Sandor,_ she knew, but that didn’t stop her from weaving her way through the ancient sentinels, oaks, and ironwoods and running into the yard with the hope of reuniting with her husband.

There were only four men, neither of whom were carrying a standard, but the identity of one of them did not remain a mystery for long. Upon the men riding through the gates, Sansa heard that unmistakable name chiming throughout the yard as nearby northmen greeted the young lord.

“Seven hells,” Arya said, their minds in sync with one another, “that’s another Umber.”

“Cregan Umber,” she whispered back. _The last living son of the Greatjon._

It had not been innocent nor a coincidence that Jon had taken her into the stables to say his farewells before riding for the Wall. As soon as they were alone, Jon had informed her that he had sent a raven to the Crownlands, cleverly guided by their little brother, to inform the heir of the Last Hearth of his elder brother’s death. 

“Why do you keep making decisions without me?” Sansa had asked him, enraged. “Am I not the Lady of Winterfell?”

“You are, but you were...with your husband,” Jon had responded with audible disgust. “It needed to be done.”

The only thing that had kept her from further chastising him like a child was the fact that she would not see him for two months. “I assumed Gareth’s elder sister would be the heir of the Last Hearth. He never mentioned a younger brother.”

“That doesn’t surprise me — the two were estranged.”

That had piqued her interest. “Estranged why?”

Jon had given her a curious look. “All they have in common is their blood. I have never met two brothers more different from one another than Gareth and Cregan Umber.”

“Hence why you sent the younger one away.”

“Yes, upon defeating the Boltons, I sent him and three of his men to the Crownlands. Once his father was rescued from the Twins, he rode east to mitigate any trouble: Cersei’s men, outlaws, brigands...whoever posed a threat riding north along the Kingsroad.”

“That was clever.”

“I expect him to return while we are gone,” Jon had said.

Sansa had stared at him incredulously. “What, _here_?”

“He’s the Lord of the Last Hearth. His place is here in the North, amongst his men.”

“I will not suffer another Umber. And Sandor—”

“—will not blame him for his brother’s sins. As I said, the boy is not like Gareth.”

“Boy?” That had taken her by surprise. “How old is Cregan Umber?”

“Seven-and-ten,” Jon had answered, perplexingly. “The same age as you.”

_I should have told Sandor,_ she thought, watching as the last son of Jon Umber spotted her across the yard. _But how dreadful of a farewell it would have been had I mentioned the name Umber around him_. _And if he and Jon are getting along, that means Jon hasn't told him either..._

Her sister tugged on her sleeve as he started to approach; Sansa knew why without a word needing to be said.

At seven-and-ten, Cregan Umber was built like a warrior of five-and-twenty. He was leaner than Gareth, and shorter, too, but not without the identifying features of his family. He had the Umber's dark brown hair, though he wore it short, and sported a well-trimmed beard. Once he stood no further than a step away from her, Sansa observed the color of his eyes - grey, like the hazy sky above her. 

He was disgustingly comely. 

The lord smiled; his teeth were perfect, too. “My ladies,” he greeted with a bow of his head.

Cregan’s voice was polished and smooth, much kinder to the ear than Gareth’s, but that did nothing to settle her nerves. If the years had taught her anything, it was that the most beautiful of people could be the worst. Cersei Lannister was a prime example of that, as was Sansa’s late husband, Harrold Hardyng. Still, she was the Lady of Winterfell, and duty demanded that she speak cordially with the lord, despite her reservations. 

Sansa lowered her eyes to stare at the onyx brooch that fastened his cloak, thankful he had not taken her hand. “My lord, allow me to offer my condolences for-”

“No need, Lady Sansa,” he said at once. “Gareth was an arrogant boor of a man, and that’s coming from an Umber.”

Sansa smiled, though the Umber name would forever be a dissonant sound to her ears. “Even so, he was your blood. Losing a brother is never easy.”

“Is your lord husband around?” he asked, surveying the yard. “I’d like to thank the man who did what I never could for fear of being called a kinslayer.”

Sansa found herself squinting at him. _Has there ever been an Umber so well-spoken? It’s no wonder he and Gareth did not get along._ She took a quick glance at Arya whose lips were parted open in awe, as if she were watching a captivating mummer’s show. 

“My husband is not in Winterfell, but he will return in a little over a fortnight.” 

_And may the old gods be with you once he does._

Cregan peered around some more, then asked, “And the Lord Commander? Where might I find him?” 

“Jon went along with my husband.” 

Cregan rubbed the back of his neck. “I see.”

“You’re the Lord of the Last Hearth now,” Arya blurted out. It was almost amusing to watch her sister act like a girl of four-and-ten considering she typically carried herself with the demeanor of a stone-faced assassin.

“So I am,” he said with a smile that cut like a knife.

Sansa looked away from him again, not because she was shy or smitten, but because looking at him felt...wrong. _I should have told Sandor._ The guilt was gnawing at her. “There will be a meeting inside the Great Hall this afternoon with the northern lords and ladies, if you would like to attend,” she said stoutly.

“I have a choice, then?”

“Beg pardon?”

“You said _if_ I would like to attend. Perhaps I wouldn’t.” Sansa was at a complete loss for words, until he let out a soft chuckle. “Forgive me, Lady Sansa. By all means, I’ll attend.”

“Lord Cregan!” one of his men shouted from the stables, waving him over.

“If you’ll excuse me, my ladies.” He smiled at her, gave a bow, then departed with an easy swagger.

Arya leaned over and whispered, “Now he’s what the whores would call a smallclothes dropper.”

Sansa quickly looked away from the lord and glared down at her. “Stop being crude.”

“Is the Hound _still_ the most comely man you’ve ever seen?”

Sansa smacked her on the head, much like Sandor would have done had he been there instead of risking his life beyond the Wall. “He is and always will be,” she hissed, then turned on her heel to finish her prayer inside the godswood.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


There was little promise that the day would improve. 

The meeting inside the Great Hall began an hour past noon, with the head of every house in attendance, along with her former husband, Tyrion Lannister. In the past three weeks, Tyrion and his jokes had become quite beloved amongst the lords and ladies. Perhaps it was because entertainment around the castle was scarce. That is, entertainment aside from gambling and brawling. Winterfell and Winter Town were not built to host so many men for so long. The sooner Bran saw Sandor and the others return from beyond the Wall, the sooner Sansa could allow the lords to return to their individual castles.

Aside from Tyrion, Cregan Umber was proving to be just as popular - amongst the ladies. 

While sitting alone on the dais, Sansa watched in amusement as the serving girls filled up cups of wine with their heads permanently turned in his direction. There was not one woman inside the hall, besides herself, who was not utterly charmed by the young northern lord. One of the serving girls tripped over her own feet and spilled a flagon onto the floor when Cregan took out his dagger and stroked the flat of the blade up and down with a cloth. Lady Alys Karstark, a wedded woman carrying the Magnar of Thenn’s child, stole a few glances his way, and even Lady Jonelle Cerwyn was undressing the lord with her eyes despite being old enough to be his mother. The sights were so amusing that Sansa needed to place a hand over her mouth to mask her giggle.

But her humor did not last very long. _That's how foolish I must have looked when I met Ser Waymar Royce and Loras Tyrell and Arys Oakheart….even Joffrey,_ she thought. The reminder of her past naivete was thoroughly revolting. _Comely he may be, but the only man who can ever enthrall me is Sandor._

Despite all the attention he was receiving, Cregan did not appear to notice any of it, and if he did, he certainly was not relishing in it. He laughed at Tyrion’s jokes, told a few of his own, and when the other lords spoke, he listened with utter reverence. 

_Jon was right,_ Sansa thought, _he is entirely unlike his brother._

When it was well past time to put an end to the japing and gawking taking place inside the hall, Sansa spoke up and informed her bannermen what was expected of them going forward. That certainly did put an end to the laughter, but being a lady was seldom about being the most amusing person in the hall.

“Your loyalty and commitment during these trying times will not be forgotten,” she began. “Once my brother confirms that the Horn of Winter has been found, you may return home until we receive word from Daenerys Targaryen.”

Lord Glover was the first to frown. “This dragon queen asks too much of us. She must be as mad as her bloody father. How many men must we sacrifice to win back a throne we no longer bow the knee to?”

“It is in your best interest,” Tyrion interjected. “Queen Daenerys has agreed to grant the North its independence in exchange for your...sacrifices.”

“And if she loses this war?” asked Lyanna Mormont, the fierce young lady of Bear Island. 

“She won’t,” Sansa said, with conviction. “Daenerys has three mature dragons and an army of Unsullied and Dothraki.”

“And my sweet sister has Lannister soldiers and sellswords,” Tyrion added, with a twisted smile. He scratched at his nose, despite it no longer being there after Mandon Moore sliced it off during the Battle of the Blackwater. “The war is won.”

“ _The war is won_?” Lord Wylis Manderly’s guffaw echoed above in the rafters. “Then what does your queen need our men for?”

“Your attendance is an act of good faith going forward, much like sending me to your lovely frozen lands was an act of good faith on her part.” Tyrion gulped his wine and tossed the cup to the serving girl he had been leering at the past half hour. Had she not been engrossed by Cregan Umber, she might have caught it. “While the North will be granted its independence, Queen Daenerys wishes to remain allies. And nothing brings friends closer together quite like going to war. Besides, Lord Manderly, your men could use a southbound journey - there’s far less snow.”

“ _Snow_?” Wylis’ face grew red with rage. “I’d sooner see snow than dragon fire pouring from the sky! We are _northmen_!”

The lords and ladies joined in all at once, each raucously offering their opinion on the matter. Once there sounded to be a consensus of dissent, Sansa arose from her seat in the center of the dais and stared out at the zealous northern leaders.

“And northmen are brave and honorable.” She spoke emphatically, stealing the attention of everyone inside the hall. The following pronouncement came to her like words spoken in a dream, predestined and out of her control. “We must not allow our pride to make an enemy of Daenerys Targaryen. When the time comes, we will travel south - all of us, including me. I will not send your men as well as my own to fight in a war while I stay five hundred leagues away. Let Cersei Lannister see the north outside her walls. Let us seek justice for all she has done. Or have you forgotten?”

“The north remembers!” Lord Glover bellowed. 

Wylis Manderly was next, pounding his meaty fist atop the table. “The north remembers!” he shouted, inciting the others to do the same. 

“The north remembers! The north remembers! The north remembers!”

“Oh, Lady Sansa, you are your father’s daughter!” Tyrion announced over the impassioned clamor, grinning from ear to ear. “You and Daenerys will be a force to be reckoned with!”

While the lords spoke with fervor amongst themselves, Sansa noticed Cregan eyeing her in silence from across the hall with the same reverence he had given the lords. “Lord Umber,” she called out, loud enough to prompt the others to quieten, “did you wish to say something?”

“Yes, Lady Sansa.” Cregan Umber rose smoothly from his seat, the youngest and tallest of the lords inside the hall, and withdrew the massive sword that once belonged to his brother and his father before him, the same sword that had killed her husband three weeks ago. “My lords and ladies, we speak of one queen, but we have yet to crown our own.” The hall was deathly silent as he approached the dais, save for his heavy footsteps against the stone. He knelt in front of her and laid the ancestral greatsword of House Umber onto the ground. “I bow my knee to you, Your Grace, from this day until my last,” he said, gazing up at her with deference. “The first Queen of Winter! The Queen in the North!”

The lords and ladies appeared to stand in unison, making their way forward to kneel in front of the dais.

Then the shouts came and endured.

“The Queen in the North! The Queen in the North! The Queen in the North!”

Like the drums on her wedding night, the five words reverberated off the walls, threatening to shatter the windows. The twenty voices sounded like a thousand, each one in cadence with the other, as if they had it rehearsed. Sansa stood there, crowned by the very son of the man who crowned her brother king, and in between the shouts, all she could think was, _Sandor should be here...Sandor should be here….Sandor should be here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, no cheating in this fic. I just like sprinkling in angst.
> 
> Next up: Beyond the Wall


	21. Sandor XI

Sansa's silken smallclothes were still clutched in his hand when he awoke. He rolled over underneath the furs that had been blanketed with snow, his bones creaking and joints popping during the effort, and watched the sun rise in the east through the morning haze.

He wondered if Sansa was watching it, too.

Somehow they made it. Somehow, despite the too frequent winter storms that all but froze them solid during the night and nearly buried them in snow, they made it to the Wall. The structure was more monstrous than Sandor could have fathomed; even from leagues away, the ice and stone barrier was incomprehensibly massive. Seven hundred feet tall and three hundred miles long, it didn’t seem possible for such a creation to be made by man. Yet, there it was.

And no matter its splendor and size, one blow of a horn could bring it all down. 

They exited the tunnel at Castle Black an hour past noon, ranging into the lands that had once been home to the wildlings, now home to naught but the Others. Jon Snow’s albino beast had waited for them at Castle Black and took off through the tunnel as quick as the wind upon his master’s command. If the Others were near, the beast would warn them before they traveled any farther.

_Or so I bloody hope._

The Riverlands would feel as balmy as an afternoon in Dorne compared to the debilitating cold beyond the Wall.

“How the buggering hell did you wildlings survive out in this shit?” he asked Tormund Giantsbane.

The wildling embraced the feral winds like a lost lover. “The key is to keep your blood pumping, Hound. Walking’s good, fighting’s better, fucking’s best! Har!”

Half a mile north stood a forest as long as the length of the Wall itself. He looked east and west, but it did not appear to have an end. As they plummeted into the boundless expanse, Jon referred to it as the haunted forest, evoking a long dry laugh from Sandor.

_As if evading a hundred thousand Others isn’t enough of a burden, we're riding through a cursed forest._

If there was ever an incarnation of hell, it would be the haunted forest beyond the Wall. The ground was hazardous, thick with fallen branches and tangled roots, an utter nightmare to ride through ahorse. But there was no avoiding it. The men had no choice but to ride at a slow, tedious pace, else risk losing their horse. There were as many trees soaring from the earth as there were flakes of snow falling from the sky - ash, cedar, ironwood, sentinels, some that were bare, broken things, and others that were as thick as if it were a summer’s day; all were of the wrong sort. 

“We’ll find the second grove of weirwoods a few hours north of here,” Jon explained, leading the way. “Bran says the horn is buried in the center. We’ll need to dig it out.”

Sandor chuckled to himself again, thinking of the hundreds of graves he dug on the Quiet Isle. _Was it an act of atonement, or was the Elder Brother only preparing me to dig through frozen solid earth for the horn that could determine the fate of Westeros?_

He had a feeling it was both.

The first grove of weirwoods was no more than a ten minute ride from the edge of the forest, but this King Joramun or whichever foolish wildling had buried the horn naturally did so in a grove much, _much_ farther. Every yard they traveled brought more wind, and every squall that blew was more painful than the last. It was so cold that the she-wolf’s smitten bastard couldn’t even open his mouth to complain about how cold it was. At the very least, Sandor was grateful for that.

The trees shielded them from the worst of the snow that followed, though the storm endured minutes short of arriving at the second grove; the native godswood was an impossible sight to miss, a perfect circle of twenty massive weirwoods, each uniquely carved with blood-red faces that stared out toward the middle. The forest’s name was well-earned, he decided, feeling apprehensive. It had the same ambience as the godswood in Winterfell, yet somehow was far more troubling. Sandor felt a thousand eyes scrutinising his every move, but the only ones he could see were the forty that had been carved into the pale bark, some melancholic, some sorrowful, some incensed.

The sooner they started, the sooner they’d be able to leave.

Sandor took the initiative, dismounting and tethering his horse to one of the less disconcerting heart trees and unpacking the spades that had been wrapped in a thick woolen blanket. Once the men each had a spade in hand, they approached the center of the grove and began their grueling task by first shoveling away the snow. Edd had been the first one to attempt to delve into the earth. Tormund hooted with laughter at the failure of a result. The steward might as well have taken his spade and tried to tear down the Wall with it with how solid the earth was. Jon tried next with little luck, then Tormund after him, no longer laughing when _he_ was the one who couldn't impale the ground. Not intentionally, Gendry and Sandor lifted their spades in unison and struck the ground - the ancient earth cracked, and the dirt loosened. 

Much like the years on the Quiet Isle had trained Sandor, the hours the bastard spent in the forge proved to be useful. Gendry, though an insufferable whinger, was physically apt to assist in completing the task at hand. If Sandor could train the boy to wield a sword rather than make one, he might even make a decent swordsman.

 _Perhaps it's a good thing the bastard came along, after all,_ he thought.

Once the ditch was started, the work gradually became easier. Sandor dreaded reaching the thick roots of the weirwood trees, but as they continued to dig, they discovered the bone white roots _encircled_ the center, as if the spot were made to hide an item that could destroy life as they knew it. 

He didn't have time to be fascinated by that. Sandor dug faster than the others, knowing the quicker he dug, the sooner they’d find the horn, the sooner they’d ride south, and the sooner he could return to his wife. 

More time passed and his arms were numb, from exertion, from cold, from unabating determination to get to the horn. His movements became automatic, no longer needing to think, for his body remembered - dig, toss, dig, toss, over and over, grunting and heaving all the while. 

Progress was being made, and Sandor did not dare consider taking a break. The horn needed to be found. He needed to return home. 

As his body did its duty, excavating the ancient earth and putting on a show for the twenty carved faces watching them, his mind returned to Sansa. _By now, she must know if she’s with child,_ he thought. That made him dig harder, grunt louder, breathe quicker - it was all he knew.

“Hound!” Tormund shouted at him over the cacophony of sounds. “I haven’t heard you make so much noise since your wedding night! Har!” 

Sandor dug and tossed a hefty scoop of earth right into his face. That only made the wildling laugh harder.

Jon said it would take the remainder of the evening, but two hours was all that was needed. It had been Sandor’s spade that struck the horn first, prompting the others to become still at once. They dug softer from there, shoveling away the earth until it appeared. The Horn of Winter was smaller than he expected it to be, three feet long, curved like a snake, bronze in color with a foreign scripture engraved on its sides. Jon had been the one to ease it out of the pit, handling it as delicately as if it were a newborn babe. But that delicateness didn’t last long. The wildling tossed his spade to the ground and embraced Jon and the horn like a man embracing his wife and child. Edd and Gendry were too tired to celebrate and sat slumped against a weirwood the second they had the chance.

Two men celebrated, two men all but slept, and Sandor packed up to return to the Wall.

Jon Snow did not concur. 

“Rest?!” Sandor roared. It had been a fortnight since he and the bastard last quarreled. “You want to rest here?!”

“We rode half the day. The horses need longer than two hours to rest,” Jon explained, sitting against a weirwood tree whose mouth screamed in silent agony. Jon placed the horn in his lap, emptied his waterskin, and wiped the sweat from his brow. It was a funny thing to sweat in such cold weather, but they were all drenched with it. “We won’t reach the Wall before dusk, even if we were to leave now," he went on. "It will only be for a few hours. If my brother was right about where to find the horn, then he’s right about the Others. It will take them a week to march upon this grove.”

Sandor had his doubts, as many as the number of unseen eyes watching them, but once he observed Gendry fast asleep and Tormund tossing kindling into the ditch to start a fire, he realized the battle was lost. It would be three weeks until he saw his little bird, and now an additional few hours.

They sat around the ditch once the fire started going, eating bread as solid as the earth beneath them and salt beef so frozen it threatened to crack a tooth. Sandor had no appetite to begin with, and when he tried to sleep, his mind would not rest. All he could do was stare into the burning pit and silently beg the fire lord to show him _something_ of his wife, just a glimpse to give him the strength he needed to survive the next three weeks without her.

The merciless god showed him not a thing. 

Either dusk fell earlier that day or Sandor was so fatigued that he didn’t realize how quickly the hours were passing. While the others slept, he and Jon sat across from one another in silence, both gazing at the flames. Weeks ago, upon asking the bastard of Winterfell whether he could see visions in the fire like he once had, Jon stated that he never did. But gauging by the way Jon watched the flames twirl, unflinching when a cloud of embers would approach his face, Sandor knew it was a lie. He could taste it, he could smell it.

“So what now, Snow?” Sandor asked, interrupting the lingering silence. “What’s the next duty of mine as _Lord of Winterfell_?”

He had hardly been serious, but when Jon sat up taller and took a sip from his waterskin, Sandor realized it had been a mistake to pose such a question to the _honorable_ Jon Snow.

“When the time comes, you’ll lead the northmen south to King’s Landing,” Jon informed him. “I don’t expect it will be long before Queen Daenerys is ready to depart Dragonstone.”

“Seven buggering hells.” Sandor had already been made aware of the war, the 'Last War' as Jon often referred to it. _The Last War...for now,_ Sandor thought cynically. Despite knowing the war was inevitable, the fact that it would be only another month, maybe two, before he’d have to make that journey struck a raw nerve. The toils of travelling so far would be one thing, but the absence of his wife during it would be another far more painful. “If Sansa could ride with me...”

The uttered thought drew a nod of understanding from Jon. “If Sansa is indeed with child, it would not be wise for her to travel, let alone lead an army to war. She must needs remain at Winterfell.”

Sandor spat into the flames to show him what he thought of that, though he knew it was the truth. How could he risk the life of his wife and child just so he wouldn’t need to be without her for a few months? He’d jump into the fire pit before he’d risk that. 

“You’d be wise to use that time fostering friendships with the northern lords and men,” Jon continued, after a brief moment of silence. “Lord Glover, Lord Manderly...Lord Umber."

Suddenly it felt as if wildfire was being poured into his ears. Sandor lifted his eyes from the flames and observed the bastard brooding. “What the bloody hell did you just say?”

“The new Lord of the Last Hearth. Gareth’s younger brother.”

The scar across his torso began to burn, as if wildfire was spilling onto it, too. “Another Umber?”

“The last son.”

“And how old is this _last son_?”

Jon Snow gave him a long look, and then the words came pouring out. “His name is Cregan and he’s of age with Sansa. The two were born only days apart. Before we departed, I sent a letter to the Crownlands informing him of his brother’s death in addition to the duties and responsibilities he now has as Lord of the Last Hearth.”

 _Duties and responsibilities,_ he repeated to himself, feeling fatally ill. _And no doubt his first duty was to leave the Crownlands and return north._

Sandor squared his shoulders. “Is this Umber near my wife?” 

“I expect by now he is.”

His anger flashed. Sandor lurched to his feet and turned towards his horse.

“Clegane,” Jon said, his voice sounding eerily similar to Beric Dondarrion's. “Nothing will happen to her.”

Sandor did not look back. “Here I was, worried about the dwarf harassing my wife, and come to find out there’s a bloody Umber in the same castle!”

“Do you think I would have informed him to return to the North if he were like his brother?”

“Let’s not forget, you were the one who betrothed her to Gareth in the first place,” he grumbled, his urgent hands shaking as they adjusted the saddle on his horse.

“You know why I needed to do that.”

“So I could kill him for you!” Sandor snapped around, surrendering to his distress. The three sleeping men awoke at once, stirring underneath their furs. “And have me killed in the process! Admit it: you knew I was going to die in that duel. You saw it in the flames, didn’t you, _bastard_? But you didn’t know Dondarrion would bring me back.” When he didn’t respond, Sandor gave a laugh so rueful that even Stranger became unsettled. “Did you bring me along to find this bloody horn, or did you only hope I might die along the way? What did you say in that letter to Umber, eh? ‘Come to Winterfell and fuck my sister while I make her a widow for you’?”

Jon set the horn aside and stood from the ground, resting his hand on the pale wolf’s head pommel of his sword. “No, but you will watch how you speak of her.”

“And here I thought we became friends,” Sandor scoffed, “ _good-brothers_. Yet you give me one more Umber to kill.”

“Kill him for what?”

“For what he means to do to my wife!”

“He would never violate Sansa,” he said with such conviction that Sandor almost believed it. “You once told me that you would never kill a man in cold blood again, that you would only kill when necessary.”

“And I bloody well meant it. But he’s an _Umber_.” The name was acid on his tongue, as it was wildfire to his ears. “He’ll do something, and when he does, he’ll pay for it.”

Jon Snow narrowed his eyes to a squint. “You are the younger brother of one of the worst men to ever live. Gregor Clegane was a monster, through and through. Should you be killed because you’re a Clegane?”

Sandor hesitated. “That’s not the same.”

“It is. Cregan hated Gareth more than you hated your own brother.”

“Impossible!” Sandor rasped. “Before I met Sansa, hating is all I knew! What Gregor did to me is worse than what any man has done to his brother!”

“No, nothing is worse than what Gareth...” Jon trailed off, his breath hanging in a heavy cloud in front of him. During his outburst, Sandor didn’t realize that it had become colder - _extremely_ cold. Jon looked around with urgency. “Ghost!” he called out. “Ghost, come!”

A white mist arose, blurring the twenty red faces surrounding them. Sandor reached for the hilt of his sword.

“Ghost!” Jon cried out.

Sandor looked down into the pit, watching as the fire snuffed out like a dying breath. 

“L- Lord Commander,” Gendry stuttered. Whether he was quivering due to fear or cold, Sandor could not say. “Should we-”

Jon held up a finger, prompting him to stay quiet. There was a queer stillness in the air, the sound of a sheet of ice splitting into two, and then the horses startled.

“Mount your horses!” He and Jon commanded in unison. 

Sandor ran up to the Kingslander bastard, lifted him off the ground, and saw him onto his mount. “If you die here, I’ll never hear the end of it from that little bitch!” He untethered the horse, snatched the reins and handed them to Gendry. “Ride for the Wall and don’t you bloody think about stopping!” 

He smacked the horse and watched him take off through the forest beside the steward. When he turned back around, he discovered Jon still afoot, handing the mounted wildling the horn. “Go, Tormund!” 

Tormund Giantsbane cantered past in his native lands, hooting a war cry as he held the reins in one hand and the Horn of Winter in the other. 

Jon met his bewildered gaze and stood his ground. “Leave, Clegane!”

“What in the seven buggering hells do you think you’re doing?” he asked, incredulous. “Staying here to die?!”

The bastard ripped out his sword, the Valryian steel edge slicing through the unnatural mist like a knife through a veil. “Buying you and the others time.”

He was either the dumbest bastard Sandor had ever met, or the most selfless; he didn’t have time to decide. Sandor grabbed him by the front of his cloak and shook him violently, hoping it might bring him to his senses. “Get the fuck on your horse!”

Jon opened his mouth, but it wasn’t his voice that filled the murky air. It was another sound, one of a glacier shattering into a million shards. 

An instinct overcame him. Pulling Jon down along with him, Sandor dropped into the ground just as a lance went flying past inches above their heads. It pierced the sentinel behind them, a long transparent spear, glowing blue in the darkness. They looked at its source, watching as four tall gaunt beings loomed through the trees and approached the godswood. Once Sandor didn’t believe in the gods, truth be told he had still doubted them all aside from the Lord of Light, but in that moment, he was sure they all existed. Everything did. Dragons, warlocks, shadows that kill kings - if the Others existed, anything could.

Their skin was as pale as the snow they seemed to hover over, walking so gently they left no prints on the ground, and their eyes burned bluer than the hottest part of a flame. Clad in reflective armor forged by what had to be magic, the white walker’s each carried a crystalline sword, as transparent as the lance that nearly impaled them, and thinner than the edge of Jon’s Valyrian steel. 

To stare at the Others was to stare at death, to watch them was to succumb to it. He looked away and reached for the dragonglass at his hip, the weapon Jon had given each of the men before exiting the tunnel that morning. It was said to be their weakness; Sandor would learn the truth of that soon enough. “Two against four,” he exhaled, ripping the dagger free as the beings approached. “I’ve faced worse odds.”

Jon looked at him and drew in a breath. “So have I.”

They rose together and stormed forward. 

The Others halted, speaking to one another in a language that sounded like a pick breaking apart ice. The four beings simultaneously raised their swords and awaited the attack, immune to fear.

Sandor feared fire, not ice. If anything, ice was the thing he feared the least.

In his right hand Sandor wielded his greatsword, in his left the obsidian dagger. Meeting one of white walkers at the edge of the grove, Sandor ducked underneath the swing of its transparent blade, grimacing when he heard the jarring sound the crystalline weapon made as it sliced through the air. A second Other pressed forward and made its attack, lunging at him with an agility far surpassing any swordsman he had ever known. Sandor pulled back far enough to avoid having his entrails spill out again and swung around in a blink of an eye to position himself behind the two. Despite knowing it might mean his life, Sandor crouched down and sunk the dragonglass dagger into the back of the nearest white walker's unarmored thigh. 

The Other erupted into a dust finer than snow, blowing away with the breeze. 

Sandor looked up at his companion, so close he could see his own reflection in the delicate armor. The sword ripped his cloak in half, inches short of slashing the back of his ribs. He backed into one of the heart trees and looked at his hands. He was only holding his sword. Sandor looked ahead at the oncoming Other, spotting the dagger lying uselessly in the snow, and then caught a glimpse of Jon slicing his sword across one of the white walker’s necks. The Valyrian steel worked as well as the dragonglass, turning the Other into powder that glittered in the moonlight.

 _Two against two,_ he thought. _Even better._

For the first time, his steel met the Other’s weapon, producing a high pitched sound like that of an animal crying out in pain. The force was so great, Sandor lost his footing and stumbled over to the next weirwood tree, watching as their tethered horses across the grove were becoming mad with fear.

His eyes returned to the Other, then his sword parried its attack. He’d never kill it without the dagger, but he’d never live if he didn’t block the blows it dealt. It was graceful and quick, cutting and countering in ways Sandor had never seen. Jon was in his blind spot, but that didn’t prevent Sandor from hearing him cry out. 

_Seven bloody hells!_

He backed away from the Other’s oncoming stab, but then tripped over a root, landing on his back with enough force to steal the breath from his lungs. Sandor reached for his sword that had fallen onto the ground, but the Other towered over him just as quickly and gripped the icy hilt with both hands as he made to impale him.

A white blur flew past, and then the Other was gone.

Sandor looked over, watching as the albino direwolf pinned the white walker to the ground and tore open its throat, spilling pale blue blood into the snow. Not knowing if that would be enough to kill it, Sandor rose from the ground and stumbled towards where he had dropped the dagger. Jon was sitting in the snow, he noticed, no longer with an opponent, but visibly in pain. Before he could attend to him, Sandor ran over to the direwolf and sunk the dragonglass into the Other’s skull. More dust, more powder, more glitter. 

They won, and the mist that hung in the air faded away.

Ghost looked up at him, his white muzzle soaked and dripping with blue blood, and then took two long strides towards Jon. The beast sniffed Jon's lower right leg and started to lick at it, evoking a gasp and grimace from his master.

“Away,” Sandor shooed off the wolf before kneeling down beside his good-brother. The snow underneath him glistened, wet and crimson. He lifted the right leg of Jon’s breeches, discovering a gash to his calf that tore open his muscle. The wound would need to be stitched, but there was no time; if more of the white walkers came, it would mean their death. Sandor ripped off a strip of fabric from his already torn woolen cloak and tied it a couple inches above the cut. Jon groaned, but he was certainly no stranger nor craven when it came to pain. Afterward, daring not to spend one more minute inside the grove, Sandor lugged him up and helped him onto his horse. 

“You can still ride a horse, can’t you?” he asked, his voice a series of hoarse breaths.

Jon winced and nodded, as silent as his pet.

Sandor grabbed their weapons, untethered their horses, and led the way south.

The first hour was spent in silence, aside from Jon’s occasional grunts of pain. Ghost had traveled with them for the first five minutes, but once their slow pace made him restless, Jon had commanded the beast to go ahead of them. Sandor vehemently wished he hadn’t done that.

_If it weren’t for that wolf, I’d be dead._

“I’m sorry,” Jon blurted out, sounding no older than a boy. Perhaps it was the pain in his leg, or perhaps it was only the pain of knowing he _was_ wrong about what they spoke about earlier. 

“Tell it true then, Snow. Did you know what would happen when I dueled Umber?”

“Yes, I knew. The morning of, I saw...I’m s-”

“Don’t,” Sandor interrupted. As sweet as it was to hear the bastard of Winterfell apologize, it was of a bitter sort, one that would keep him up at night with guilt if he let him go on. Jon admitted it, which was more than Sandor could say for the majority of honorable men. And after the melee with the Others, it hardly even mattered at all. “Who can blame you for not telling me?" he continued. "It wouldn't have made a difference if you did, I would have still dueled Umber. And besides, who in their right bloody mind wouldn’t have done the same thing?”

Jon gave a weak laugh. Sandor looked down at his leg, but the blood no longer appeared to drip as heavily as it did an hour ago. He hoped the fatigue Jon felt was from physical exhaust rather than from losing too much blood.

“Sansa was lost to me for years," Jon said softly, "as was Arya and Bran...and Rickon...he’s six years old and he's still on Skagos.” His face squinched up. It took Sandor a moment to realize that he was crying. “I only want to keep them safe, as my father would have done had he...”

The sincerity in his words was heavy; Sandor could no longer deny what had been said moments before the Others attacked. “This last Umber son, he’s not like his brother?”

Jon shook his head. “No, no. Cregan is a good lad and he...he’d never harm Sansa.”

Sandor sighed and allowed the following silence to persist. It would be hours before they’d reach the Wall, and he was eager to spend every waking second thinking about his wife. 

He was coming home.

* * *

  
  


Very late, or very early, he and Jon entered the open tunnel at Castle Black and laughed with delirium.

As soon as they entered, the wildling jumped to his feet from the nearest building and waved the horn. There was a torch lit in the sconce beside him; the bronze horn glowed like a beacon. “We did it you bastards!” Tormund cheered, until he saw Jon’s current state. He ran forward like a concerned father. “Crow! What did those buggers do to you, lad?”

“Nearly snipped his leg right off,” Sandor answered. “Take him inside and see to his wound. Where are the others?”

As soon as he got the words out, the steward and bastard exited the building. _Thank the bloody gods,_ he thought, until Gendry groaned while looking out to the east. “It’s already first light!”

“We need rest, as do the horses,” Jon said through clenched teeth, as Tormund helped him off his horse. 

Sandor loathed admitting it, but he was right. Despite knowing every hour not travelled would be another hour separated from Sansa, despite knowing there was an Umber he had yet to confirm was different from his brother, Sandor knew rest would be the difference between returning to Winterfell and not returning at all.

He swallowed the pain of distance, trusted what Jon had said about Umber, and made his decision. “We’ll stay here today and leave on the morrow at first light.”

Tormund uttered a “Har!”, Gendry sighed with relief, Edd said something pessimistic under his breath, and Jon winced as he nodded in approval.

After closing the tunnel and caring for the horses, Sandor took one last glance towards the rising sun, wondering if Sansa was watching it, too. _Three weeks and one day, little bird,_ he thought, before closing the door to the common hall where they would sleep the remainder of the day.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Sandor.”

He awoke with a start, gasping for breath, and opened his eyes to darkness. 

“Sandor,” Sansa whispered behind him, crying. “Where are you?”

He was at Castle Black, somehow he had forgotten. Sandor rolled over onto his other side and stared at the hearth, watching the lone flame flicker out.

“Sansa?” His voice was a croaky whisper.

Inside, there were steady snores. Outside, there was a roll of thunder. It happened again immediately after, and then again and again and again, each boom more faint than the last.

The shutters were still closed, and without the light from the hearth, it was black as pitch inside. _If the fire burned out, it must be morning,_ he reasoned. _It could be noon for all I know in this bloody dark._ Sandor made to stand, refusing to waste another day. He groaned as he rose to his feet, suddenly aware of all the fresh aches and pains that had been gained in the melee with the Others, and staggered towards where the door would be. He tripped over someone in the process, Gendry, he realized, once he heard him begin to groggily whinge, and then threw the door wide open. 

First light flooded the hall from the east, leaving him temporarily blind. He raised a hand to shield his eyes and stepped out of the hall, turning to face south. The thunder endured. Sandor glanced up at sky, the thinnest overcast he had seen in weeks, and blinked away the black spots.

While the other spots faded, two of them did not. The thunder, he realized, was not thunder at all.

Sandor stood outside the common hall, rigid with terror.

A hand grabbed his arm and used him as a crutch. Jon Snow limped beside him, gazing up at the sky, and his direwolf followed soon after, snarling.

“Two dragons,” Sandor exhaled. He watched as the two great bodies flapped their leathery wings, flying south. “That’s two bloody dragons.”

“There should be three.” 

The air rang with sharp, dissonant cries. _The beasts are mourning_ , Sandor thought. 

Jon Snow looked at him with fear. “We need to leave. _Now_.”


	22. Sansa XI

Sansa stared blankly out the window of her solar, watching a man scream out in agony.

The gruesome display continued to unfold before her as she watched the man writhe on the ground and curse the gods. Sansa saw how it had happened, how the man’s foot had become stuck in the snow just as he made to swing around his opponent in the practice yard. When his body had turned, his foot did not, and now his knee was protruding out of the wrong side of his leg. 

She saw it all with her tired eyes, and not once did she wince, not once did she blink, not once did she look away.

His opponent had knelt down beside him, a Knight of the Vale who, no doubt, had been looking forward to going home, and lifted up the leg of his trousers to set it back into place. It would have been wiser for one of the visiting maesters to attend to the injury, but the maesters were still preoccupied with Bran. It had been a day and a half since her little brother had last been awake, and not one of the maesters could figure out how to wake him from his perpetual sleep.

 _Bran will not wake because I asked him to go beyond the Wall,_ Sansa thought, clutching the window sill until her nails threatened to break. _I begged him, and now he will not wake._

A swirl of snow blew in through the window, but she did not flinch; she was numb to the cold, insensible to the flakes alighting atop her lashes that were damp with tears. The man’s screaming grew more frantic as the knight wrapped one hand around his shin to hold him steady. Sansa continued to watch him. Sansa continued to envy him. 

_What I would give to express my pain so freely. What I would give to cry out so openly._

One twist of the knight’s hand and the knee rolled around, popping back into place. She heard a quick _snap_ that seemed to be carried by the wind, or perhaps that had only been her imagination. The man’s screams stopped, replaced with pained, exhausted groans, and the worst of his torment was over. 

But Sansa’s wasn’t. Hers had just begun.

“Sansa,” a drowned out voice called out. “Sansa...did you hear me?”

Her lungs filled with air as cold as ice. Did she go that whole time without breathing? Sansa had become so engrossed by the display in the yard that she had forgotten she was in the presence of others. Then again, her lack of awareness was not very surprising; it had been two days since she last slept. It had also been two days since she was last able to keep food down. Somewhere in between the sleepiness and hunger and nausea and grief, Sansa had forgotten that she was meeting with the _other_ queen. 

“Her Grace is a queen,” Cregan Umber corrected Tyrion. “You must address her as such.”

Sansa wiped away the tears that had frozen on her lashes with the back of her hand, then turned away from the window. She stared at each of the faces in front of her in turn. At one end of the long rectangular table was the Valyrian beauty, Daenerys Targaryen, and her Hand just beside her, Tyrion Lannister. In the middle sat the two most senior northern lords at Winterfell, Lord Glover and Lord Wylis Manderly, and behind them, leaning against the wall honing her sword was her sister, Arya. And then, sitting beside where Sansa should be sitting, was the square-jawed, grey-eyed, brown-haired, broad-shouldered, young Lord of the Last Hearth. _My husband should be the one sitting there,_ she thought. _Not you._

“Courtesies and pleasantries are not what I need,” said Sansa. “What I need are answers.”

The Imp turned to his queen. “Your Grace, would you like me to recount what it was that you saw?”

Daenerys Targaryen shook her head. Her lilac eyes were red and swollen, much like her own. _The dragons are children to her,_ Sansa knew, _and it has been only hours since one of her children was killed._

“This army of dead men,” the dragon queen began, her voice not betraying her inner anguish, “they were not moving when I saw them.”

“Why would the Others not march south?” asked Galbart Glover, though Sansa could hardly hear him over Arya sliding her whetstone down Needle. 

“Perhaps scouring the area for the Horn of Winter,” Tyrion proposed, swirling the wine in his cup mindlessly.

“Or maybe they knew along,” Arya said, sliding the stone down her blade once more before sheathing it as quickly as a strike of lightning. Rather than have tears in her eyes, her sister’s were filled with fire. She turned towards the table. “Bran said the Night’s King has abilities. What if he knew? What if he _wanted_ the dragons to fly beyond the Wall? What if he was waiting to strike one down?”

“Viserion,” Daenerys said wistfully. “His name was Viserion.” She took a moment to gather herself and then looked at Arya. “I witnessed undead mammoths and aurochs and bears, even giants. I agree, this king of theirs wanted my dragons. He wanted me to be vulnerable. And soon, he will pay the price with fire and blood.”

Lord Wylis wiped his sweating brow with a stained cloth. “If the Wall still stands, the Others cannot pass it. And surely an undead dragon cannot _fly_ over it.”

“We must assume the worst,” the dwarf insisted. “Even if Jon Snow and Clegane and the others managed to find dear old Joramun’s horn, we do not know if they made it back to Castle Black, nor do we know what damage an undead dragon might do to the Wall.”

“With a dragon, the Others may not need the horn at all to bring the Wall down,” Arya pondered aloud. “Or burn it.”

The image of the Wall melting by dragonfire sent a shiver down her spine. 

“When will your armies arrive?” Lord Glover asked the Imp. 

“The Unsullied are disciplined and the Dothraki are...competent,” Tyrion said with a forced smile. “Jorah Mormont leads them here as we speak. I expect it will be a month before they arrive.”

“ _A month_?” Wylis asked, bug-eyed. “Will we have a month?”

“Yes,” Daenerys answered. “As I mentioned before, the dead were not traveling when I saw them. I do not know how fast they move, but they were still a great distance away from the Wall.” 

Sansa felt a spark of hope, a jolt of promise. _If the Others are still far, perhaps it was something else that kept Sandor, Jon, and the rest from riding south along the Kingsroad. What if something happened to their horses? What if they need help?_

She gave it a single thought, and then said, “I’m sending a group of men north.”

Tyrion had just taken a sip of wine and nearly choked on it. “ _My lady_ -”

“ _Your Grace_ ,” Lord Umber corrected him again. 

“ _Sansa_ ,” Tyrion said, scrunching up what was left of his nose at the young lord, “I believe it is time to _end_ the northern travels. You have more to lose than to gain by sending healthy, able men north where the Others now have a dragon at their disposal. If the men made it south of the Wall, they will return in time.”

Color rose to her cheeks. “Pardon me, my lord, but you are not my Hand.”

“May I ask who is?” 

Sansa hesitated, taking a moment to consider. When her eyes shifted around the room, Galbart and Wylis both obnoxiously cleared their throats. _Oh spare me,_ she thought, but what she said was, “I have not decided as of yet.”

Tyrion smiled. “Well then, until you have chosen a Hand, perhaps I can offer you a bit of advice.”

 _I don’t need your advice!_ she wanted to scream like the man had in the yard. _I need my husband! I need my brother! I need Bran to wake up!_

“I’ll go north, Your Grace.” Cregan Umber spoke up before she could think of a less violent response.

“ _Absolutely not!_ ” Wylis Manderly blurted out so quickly spittle sprayed from his lips. “You are the future of your house! The Greatjon’s last son! I implore you to find a wife and plant a child in her before you go gallivanting about Westeros again.”

The young lord leaned back in his chair, releasing a heavy sigh. His eyes met hers. “Queen Sansa, allow me to go.”

Sansa stared at him, befuddled. _In the three days I have known him, he has crowned me queen, volunteered to stand watch outside my bedchamber each night, and now he is offering to risk his life to find my husband._ It was passing odd, to say the least. And Sansa could not help but become suspicious. 

“Lord Wylis brings up a fair point,” she began, walking over to take her seat at the head of the table. “You are the Lord of the Last Hearth, yet you wish to sacrifice your life to travel north when the Others travel south?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Sansa sat down and narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

“To serve my queen,” he said without hesitation.

“ _And_ win the respect and approval of all the northmen with your displays of valor,” Tyrion added with a wry smile. He raised both eyebrows at her.

 _Tyrion senses it, too._ Her suspicions were all but confirmed. _Is that what this is? Could Cregan be priming himself to be my next suitor should Sandor be…_

Sansa would not finish that thought. She could not think it, she could not become hopeless - not yet. 

Sansa clasped her hands atop the table. Two days without eating made them feel thin and feeble. “I’ll select a group of men to ride north on the morrow, but you will stay here, Lord Umber.”

Cregan rubbed a hand over his tidy beard. “Queen Sansa, I don’t understand.”

“What is it you don’t understand?”

“Why Your Grace will not permit me to travel north.”

 _Because I don’t want you to expect the debt to be paid with my hand,_ she wanted to say, but what she said was, “Because you can be of better use here.”

“I’ll go with him,” Arya chimed in.

Sansa’s gaze snapped towards her. “I made my decision. Lord Umber will stay here, and so will you.”

Her sister frowned. “That’s not fair! Jon and Gendry are out there, too!”

“Perhaps you can take your dragons north and skim the Kingsroad,” Lord Glover suggested to Daenerys.

The dragon queen’s lilac eyes, though soft in color, blazed. “I will not risk taking Drogon and Rhaegal north to be slayed by those monsters. I’ve sent them east to hunt before the battle. I do not expect them to return for weeks.”

Her Hand nodded. “I agree with Queen Daenerys, it is critical we keep both dragons out of harm’s way until the battle. If you must, Sansa, send your men north. But know what it is you are asking from them.”

 _Their lives,_ she thought. _I am asking them to die in order to save those who might still live._ Sansa rubbed her temples. “That will be all,” she said before her composure would be lost. “We will meet again on the morrow. For now, please leave me.”

Sansa watched as they all stood. Daenerys was first, spinning around towards the exit so fast her pale silver-gold hair whipped around in a beautiful display. Tyrion was next, eyeing Cregan as he finished his wine before slipping out the door. Lord Glover helped Lord Wylis stand up from his chair and mumbled to one another quietly though Sansa managed to hear them say the word “Hand” before departing, followed by Arya glowering at her before stomping out and cursing under her breath.

Cregan Umber was the last to rise from his seat. And then he lingered.

Sansa looked up at his grey eyes, grey like Sandor’s. _‘I saw a boy’, Bran said to me, ‘grey of eye and auburn of hair. A prince.’ But Sandor saw a girl. A daughter, not a son..._

“My queen.”

For a half a heartbeat, Sansa returned to that first night inside the tent where Gareth had made his proposal, where he had tried to kiss her, where he might have taken her against her will had it not been for Sandor. 

But Sandor wasn’t there now, and she didn’t know if he would be ever again. 

“I’ll find your lord husband and the Lord Commander, Your Grace, if you will allow me to-”

Sansa looked away and dropped her head towards the table. “Leave me.”

He drew in a breath as if to give a response, but no words followed. Heavy footsteps receded, a man of seven-and-ten, and yet nearly as large as her husband, and then the door to her solar came to a gentle close. 

Sansa collapsed onto the table and screamed. 

* * *

Four more hours had passed. Four more hours without sleep. Four more hours without food. Four more hours without Sandor.

She had not left the solar since the meeting. The only visitor she had during that time was Maester Rhodry from Castle Cerwyn who had come to inform her of Bran’s condition. His breathing was stable and he had no fever, but Bran had yet to wake. 

_It’s my fault,_ she thought for the hundredth time, adding more tears to soak into the oaken table. _I was maddened with curiosity. I was the one who begged him._

The sight yesterday morning had been horrific. Upon Bran informing her and Arya that he could not find the men traveling south along the Kingsroad, Arya had taken off to the rookery to send a raven to Dragonstone while Sansa remained with her brother inside the godswood, beseeching him to try again.

“I need you to go beyond the Wall,” she had pleaded with him, clutching his frail hands. 

“I cannot,” he had replied vacantly. “The Night’s King will be able to sense if I-"

“Bran, you need to try! Please!”

As desperate as she had been, Sansa didn’t think he would do it. After his own journey beyond the Wall alongside Meera Reed, Bran no longer was persuaded by his emotions like he once was. But Sansa knew there had to be _something_ still there. 

_He spared me from seeing the worst of the duel between Sandor and Gareth,_ she remembered. _Bran placed his hand on my own so I wouldn’t see Sandor be split in half. Why would he do that aside from having sympathy?_

Perhaps it had been that same sympathy that convinced Bran to warg into a raven and fly to the Wall. Sansa had watched him as he did, observed his eyes become two white orbs as his hands became limp in her own. Some time had passed, her apprehensiveness growing by the second, and then in the blink of an eye, a single stream of blood had leaked from his nose like a scarlet snake. His eyelids had shut, his head had fallen back against his chair, and then Sansa’s heart had stilled.

 _I killed him,_ she had thought, silent and blinking before crying out for help. _Death follows me, wherever I go._

But by the grace of the old gods, he still lived, although that did nothing to ease her guilt. On top of the gut-wrenching pain of not knowing where Sandor and Jon and the others were, Sansa was left to wonder if her little brother would ever wake. 

_It’s my fault._

The gale force winds would not stop her from visiting the godswood that evening. Sansa dragged her feet through the snow, clad in a heavy wool and fur cloak she had sewn for Sandor to wear once he returned. _He will return,_ she thought. _He will._ The cloak was so large on her that she had to gather the fabric into her hands to prevent herself from tripping over it, not to mention the massive hood that practically left her blind. But it was warm and it would be her husbands, that’s all that mattered.

Her stomach ached, but she knew that if she ate, it was not like to stay down long. Her eyes burned, but if she slept, what night terrors would she dream of? The godswood was her sanctuary. The godswood was the only place she’d find comfort in, if any. 

_I can pray,_ she thought. _That’s all I can do for now. Hope and pray._

Once she entered the old forest and made for the heart tree, bumping into the sentinels and elms and soldier pines along the way, she heard someone cough just ahead, followed by two words, “Your Grace.”

 _Sandor,_ she thought impulsively, assuming the roughness of his voice was lost with the squalling wind. She frantically pulled back the hood of the cloak, only to discover Cregan Umber sitting beneath the heart tree, his short brown hair rippling in the wind. 

He rose from the ground, wearing a solemn expression. “I’ll give you your privacy.”

“No, you were here first,” she sighed, suddenly feeling guilty about the coldness she displayed inside the solar. “Please sit down. We can pray together.”

And so they did, several feet apart from one another in utter silence. She knelt down in the same spot where Sandor stood during their wedding ceremony, underneath the weirwood’s red canopy of five-pointed leaves facing towards the melancholic face that was carved in the wide trunk. 

_It was the happiest moment of my life,_ she thought, squeezing her gloved hands together when she felt the urge to weep. _I would give anything to return to that moment, anything at all._

“Your Grace,” the lord interrupted her from revisiting the past, “may I speak freely?”

 _Oh no,_ she thought, feeling a deep sense of foreboding. Sansa sat up straighter and reminded herself to remain calm. “You may.”

“I continue to pray for your lord husband’s return, but in the instance he is not found-”

The reminder blew away with the wind. “Then I should wed you?” she interrupted him curtly, shifting her gaze from the heart tree to scrutinize the man six feet beside her. 

“No, Your Grace,” Cregan nearly stuttered. “I only meant to say that-”

“That I deserve a _northern_ lord? That’s what your brute of a brother told me.” Sansa staggered to her feet, her Stark blood boiling, feeling as fierce as her sister had that morning. “I lost the love of my life!” she sobbed, denying it no longer. “I lost the man I was supposed to have a castle full of children with! A daughter! There is no one for me after him! Do you understand that?”

“I do,” he said, so softly she felt her rage cut in half. “I understand better than anyone.”

Sansa had no choice but to gentle her tone. “You do?”

“Yes.” He looked up at her with a somber smile, allowing the gust of wind to blow past before adding, “Because I lost the love of my life, too.”

At that moment, she felt like the brute. At that moment, she felt as cruel of a queen as Cersei Lannister. She would have blamed her temper on her hunger or her lack of sleep, but it was her grief, above all else, along with her mistrust of the Umber name, that sparked the outburst.

 _He has done me no harm,_ Sansa thought, _not ever. Yet all I’ve done is precisely what Jon said not to do. What sort of queen would I be if I blamed him for his brother’s sins? How am I any better than Cersei if I allow my suspicions to become my truth?_

“I’m sorry,” she said with a deep exhale. Even with her hair braided, the loose strands fluttered wildly in front of her face. “Forgive me...I had no idea.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Your Grace.”

“How did it happen?”

The look he gave her was an answer all on its own. Cregan regarded the heart tree, then took a long, shaky breath. “Gareth.”

Sansa knelt down beside him, her knees weak and feeble. _Jon said they were estranged, but I assumed it was due to their clashing personalities, not murder._ She clutched the cloak around her tighter, shivering. _How can a man do such a thing to his brother?_ she wondered, until she thought of what Sandor’s own brother did to him. _Was the woman Cregan loved a whore? A lowborn woman that Gareth did not approve of?_

Bleary eyed, Sansa placed a tender hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Cregan,” she said again. “We will pray for her, too.” When she closed her eyes and bowed her head before the heart tree, she felt a cramping pain inside her womb, and then another. More wind blew past, followed by two flakes of snow landing on her cheeks like twin kisses. “What was her name?” 

Sansa could not see his face, but she could hear the sorrow in Cregan Umber’s voice when he said, “His name was Edric, Your Grace.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The (smutty) reunion is next.


	23. Sandor XII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll add it in the tags but I want to say it here also: this chapter contains mentions of homophobia/hate crimes which may be triggering to some. It's in the looooong dialogue exchange between Cregan and our man, Sandor.

The Kingslander bastard’s horse died four days ago, and it was Sandor’s turn to ride double.

“Touch me and I’ll knock you off the saddle,” he threatened the boy over his shoulder. “Whine and I’ll throw you off.”

“Y-yes, m’lord,” Gendry stammered.

 _M’lord._ Sandor gave a bark of laughter and urged his horse forward. _I’ll get used to hearing that the same day I learn to love fire._

Traveling southbound slowly mended the hole inside his heart. Each day, the festering, rotting wound that had developed the moment he said farewell to Sansa became slightly more tolerable. Nine days or less would bring them to Winterfell, meaning nine days or less the suffering would stop all together. And yet the fewer days there were, the slower they seemed to pass. Nine days, nine years, nine hundred leagues away, it did not matter. He’d travel south and return to her over any expanse of distance and time.

Sandor looked briefly at the sky above. The ash colored clouds were as still as lakes of ice, threatening snow but not quite succumbing. No Others had come for them yet, nor had an undead dragon flown overhead as Jon Snow expected. Had he not witnessed the Others firsthand, Sandor would have laughed at the idea of resurrecting a dragon. But he saw their swords and armor, made of ice, but interlaced with magic and spells and other otherworldly things he did not understand. Doubting the white walkers’ abilities would be the mistake of a fool, and Sandor refused to be the one to rue it.

They rode like their life depended on it, because it did, mounting at first light and riding until dusk was several hours old. It was stupid and reckless, but so, too, would be traveling leisurely given the ominous threat. Gendry’s horse was the first to go, and Sandor knew it wouldn't be the last. If anything happened to Stranger, he’d never forgive himself, but they were both like to be dead if they didn’t continue to haul ass away from the Wall. He spent extra time with him once they dismounted for the day, brushing him, speaking to him, even crying to him on his darkest days (which was nearly every day). A horse he was, but there were some things he’d sooner express to Stranger than to the four men who’d never let him live it down. 

The weather, on the other hand, favored them greatly. But it was...unusual. Sometimes it would snow, but there had yet to be a storm since they left Castle Black. If that wasn’t queer enough, the wind was all but absent. Jon didn’t like that either and claimed it had to be related to the activity of the Others. Again, Sandor would not be a fool and doubt it, but at the very least the weather conditions kept them from losing hours of traveling time.

“It’s the calm before the storm,” Edd liked to tell them, again and again. “It’s brewing.”

As irksome as it was to hear, it was the truth, and his grim words never failed to make them ride a little bit faster.

However, even if the Others _weren’t_ on the brink of having an ice dragon annihilate the Wall, Sandor would have ridden south just as quickly. He had done his duty as Lord of Winterfell, as futile as it was, and his place was beside his wife. Not to mention the nightmares...

_Those bloody nightmares._

They came every night, enough to make him dread sleep. He’d stare at the campfire afterward, desperate to see something in the flames to bring him a measure of solace, but there was nothing. There was always nothing. Something was wrong, he knew. Something was… 

He had that _one_ dream again. He had _that_ one often. It was the one he had months ago, finding Sansa on all fours and submitting herself to a man with a shadowed face while heavily pregnant. It was different each time. Sometimes he’d find her in the godswood at Winterfell, other times in the haunted forest beyond the Wall. Sometimes she would be crying, other times she would be screaming for help. Once he even mounted his horse when he awoke in the middle of the night, until Jon woke, too, and commanded his beast to run out and stop him.

“It’s too dangerous to travel alone, Clegane,” Snow had called out to him. 

Sometimes it felt like Beric Dondarrion had never died. “This Umber...if he touches-”

“-he won’t!” Jon had said with conviction. And that had been the end of that.

Sandor wondered how the bastard could have so much confidence in the young lord. Men, even the best of them, were prone to think with their cock from time to time. Jon’s own father was a prime example of that. And a boy of seven-and-ten who had the same blood as Gareth Umber was bound to err _gruesomely_. There were times when Jon Snow’s reassurances were convincing enough, but there were also times Sandor wondered if he even knew the boy at all. He was desperate to return to Sansa - sickeningly desperate.

And he was not alone. They were all desperate to return, for one reason or another. Aside from Jon’s frequent mentioning of the dragon queen, the gash on his calf urgently needed to be seen by a maester. The wildling did a fair enough job when it came to stitching it up, but his steward never failed to note the smell of it when he’d clean in the evening.

 _Gods, don’t let the bastard end up like me after the Crossroads,_ Sandor thought more than once, not realizing he was, in a way, praying for Jon Snow not to fall over and die. He wondered why he kept doing that when praying felt so…wrong. The only god he believed in was Dondarrion’s, and that sliver of faith was like to vanish if he never witnessed another vision in the flames. 

Gendry spoke of Arya often, _too_ often, Tormund spoke of a handful of women, one of whom was Sansa’s own chambermaid, and Edd spoke of no one besides the Others and their looming demise.

_Desperate, so bloody desperate._

The day was over, and eight days were all that remained. There was no snow that night, only clouds frozen in the black sky overhead. _The calm before the storm._ Once the fire had been built, he and Jon spoke to one another for some time while the others slept, until they heard the faintest sounds of hooves hitting the earth.

The albino beast took off, rushing south along the Kingsroad, a silent, massive blur.

“Ghost!” Jon shouted, awaking the others. He tried to stand, but the torn muscle in his leg only made him wince.

Sandor was on his feet at once, his sword at the ready, squinting as the faintest outlines of riders approached. They carried banners, two of them, and Ghost padded alongside them, panting so fiercely he looked to be smiling. Sandor sheathed his sword, peering at the banners.

 _A grey direwolf running on an ice-white field. House Stark._ The sight was exhilarating until he recognized the second coat of arms. _A giant, roaring on a red field._

_House bloody Umber._

The surprises continued. The first rider to approach was not a man at all, but a girl. The she-wolf came to an abrupt halt and hopped off her horse, darting towards Gendry as if he was the only one there. 

“Arya,” Jon Snow whispered, though it was as loud as a shout with the absence of the winter winds. He and the bastard exchanged a look. “Clegane…”

The others came to halt beside the Kingsroad and then dismounted their horses. Sandor looked away from the bastard’s silent threat and observed the four men. He recognized _him_ at once, the boy who had to be Cregan Umber, and outwardly laughed with disdain. 

_Every maiden’s bloody dream. Every whore’s, too. The dream of every woman with working eyes, even the bloody silent sisters._

This Umber stood a few inches shorter than him, nor was he as broad in the chest, but considering he was seven-and-ten, he _was_ a bloody giant. _He_ looked like a lord. _He_ looked like the man Sansa should have wedded. Strong jaw, clean beard, and hair cut shorter than most northmen he had seen, Sandor wondered if the gods were playing a cruel joke on him. 

Was it envy? That was as foreign to him as praying. But there was some innate competitiveness that overcame him; Sandor almost felt like the Hound again - almost.

Cregan Umber bowed his head. “Lord Commander.”

“Lord Umber,” Jon observed from the ground, as bewildered as he was. “Why did Sansa send you north?”

“Your brother-”

“Bran won’t wake up,” Arya interrupted, pulling her bastard lover along with her. “We didn’t know if you made it back from beyond the Wall.”

Jon looked as pale as his wolf. “What happened to Bran?”

“He warged into a raven and flew past the Wall the morning you should have been riding south. I wasn’t there when it happened, but Sansa said his eyes just closed and then he was unconscious. The maesters can’t figure out what is wrong...why are you sitting?” Arya squinted at his leg. “Seven hells, are you _hurt_?”

Snow ignored that. “Is Queen Daenerys still in Winterfell?”

“She is, Lord Commander,” Cregan Umber spoke up. “Jorah Mormont leads her armies from Dragonstone to defend Winterfell.”

“Good,” Jon sighed, rubbing his hands down his face. “Very good.”

The young lord opened up his saddle bag and took out what appeared to be a heavy bundle of furs. Without a moment’s hesitation, he handed it to Sandor. “Her Grace wanted me to give this to you first thing.”

Sandor all but snatched it away from him and let it unravel in his hands. It was a woolen cloak, almost as jet as Jon Snow’s from the watch, but with various shades of grey in the fur. _A northern cloak made by my northern wife._ He felt his heart swell, until it occurred to him what the Umber lord in front of him had said. “ _Her Grace_?” 

“Yes, your wife is no longer the Lady, but the queen. The Queen in the North.”

Sandor blinked in silence. A wolf howled in the distance, and then Ghost took off. _I should have been there._

“Was it Lord Wylis’ idea to crown her so soon?” Jon queried.

“No, Lord Commander,” Cregan almost stuttered. “It was mine.”

“ _Yours?_ ” Sandor boomed. The she-wolf started to snicker, but when he absently placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, her snickering quickly became a gasp. “You made my wife a queen? _You_? While I was away?”

Umber scratched the back of his neck. “Yes...Queen Sansa is a remarkable woman. I gladly bent the knee for her.”

It was like swinging a stick at a wasps’ nest. Tormund erupted into a boisterous laugh, Arya gripped the hilt of her Needle, the three men accompanying Lord Umber all bared their steel, and Jon Snow shot up from the ground on his wounded leg, all in the same instant Sandor grabbed the front of the lord’s cloak and brought him an inch away from his face. 

“Being funny, are you?” he rasped. 

“Enough, Clegane!” Jon raised his voice, grimacing as he leaned on his sword. His hand clenched tightly around the wolf’s head pommel, using the Valyrian steel as a cane. “Lord Umber, may I have a word with you in private?”

Sandor released him with a little shove, but Cregan was nimble enough on his feet to avoid falling back into the snow. 

To his surprise, the boy betrayed no indication of fear. “Put your swords away!” Cregan ordered his men, as he adjusted the onyx clasp around his throat. “He is the Queen’s consort. Your loyalty is to him before it is to me.”

Was he mocking him? Sandor was sure that’s what that was and would have grabbed him again and followed it up with a fist had the she-wolf not seized his arm. As Cregan helped Jon walk over to an area out of hearing distance, he and Arya sat down beside the campfire, its flames full of vigor.

Arya shooed the others away, including Gendry, and then looked at him with a semblance of a smirk. 

He did not have the patience. “Say what it is you want to say.”

She chuckled and said, “He’s a real small clothes dropper, huh?”

Sandor leaned over and smacked the back of her head. “Did this buggering Umber touch Sansa?”

For whatever reason, she found that utterly amusing, despite having been clouted on the head. “Trust me when I say _no_.”

“And the Imp? What of him?”

“No! Seven hells, you sound stupid as shit. Sansa isn’t unable to defend herself, you know.”

That was true. It was she who had escaped the clutches of Littlefinger. It was she who likely turned away the advances of hundred other men he did not know about in the years apart. Sansa protected herself more than he ever had, if truth be told. Perhaps his fears were more irrational than he cared to admit. 

“I know that,” Sandor sighed, mindlessly running his fingers through the fur of the cloak she made him. “She just means-”

“-everything to you?” Arya finished his thought. For once, there was no sarcasm in her tone. “Well, all she ever talks about is _you_.”

That quelled his darkest fears, even if only for a little while. Once his mind was free to wander, he abruptly said, “Is Sansa with child?”

Arya shrugged. “The maester never confirmed anything before I left, but her titties look huge. When you see them, you’ll probably die.”

“Seven bloody hells,” he cursed, imagining burying his face between Sansa’s full, supple breasts. For a few passing seconds, Sandor closed his eyes and reminisced how soft her teats felt when they filled his hand, how beautifully they jiggled when she’d ride on top, how sweet those firm pink nipples tasted when he’d suck them dry… 

“Bran said he saw her have a boy.”

That quickly interrupted him from his lewd thoughts. He opened his eyes, observing the girl grimacing as if she had read his mind. “A boy? I saw a girl.”

“Well, obviously you saw it wrong,” she sneered. “Bran has a better track record when it comes to prophecy than _you_.”

“Arya!” Jon called out from the trees, beckoning her over. 

Sandor muttered a curse as he watched Cregan Umber making his way over to the campfire. The she-wolf stood up, then kicked his foot. Before walking away, she said, “For what it’s worth, Sansa told me to tell you to _be kind_ to him.”

 _Just like she told me to be kind to her bastard brother,_ he thought. _Sansa is too pure for the likes of me._

It had only been a month ago that he and Jon couldn’t stand the sight of one another, but Sandor’s guilt had been enough to bury that hatchet. Even so, getting along with an Umber was bound to be a much greater challenge than getting along with his good-brother. 

_If Sansa has asked it of me, I must try. He’s not like his brother, that’s what Snow told me. I must bloody try._

Cregan stood in front of him and bowed his head. “Forgive me, Your Grace, for-”

Suddenly, Sansa’s wish was forgotten. “ _Your Grace?_ ” he issued a sharp guffaw. “Go on and mock me one more time, Umber.”

“I was not mocking you, Your...” He trailed off and sighed. Without being asked to, Cregan sat down on the opposite side of the campfire and opened up his wineskin, looking pensive as took a drink.

 _I’ve been here before,_ Sandor thought, staring at the Umber across the flames. No matter how many days passed since that first night he spoke with Gareth, he would always remember that infuriating conversation. _‘There’s no such bloody thing as raping your own wife’, Gareth said to me._ Sandor’s hands balled into fists just thinking about it. He wondered if his brother shared similar morals. Jon Snow said he didn’t, but he would learn the truth of that soon enough.

When the boy leaned over and offered him a drink, all he saw was a younger, cleaner version of Gareth Umber looking right at him.

Sandor crossed his arms. “Bugger your wine.”

Cregan lowered his eyes, but he did not appear to be easily intimidated. “It was not my intention to slight you by crowning your wife queen while you were away.”

He refused to believe a word. The mere resemblance was enough to make him sick with fury. “Is that so?”

“I swear it. I suppose a part of me hoped to follow in my father’s footsteps. Before the War of the Five Kings, he declared Robb Stark-”

“I know what he did!” Sandor snapped. “I’m not a bleeding idiot.”

“Of course not, I apologize.” Cregan took another pensive sip before adding, “I would also like to thank you for ridding us all of my brother.”

Sandor snorted. “No need to thank me. I enjoyed every minute of it, especially when my steel split open his skull.”

“I would have liked to have seen that.”

It was not the response he was expecting. Sandor eyed him, a bit intrigued. “So what was it between you two? Did he catch you in bed with one of his precious whores?”

Cregan set the wine aside and looked him dead in the eye. “No, he caught me in bed with a man.”

Sandor scrutinized the maiden’s fantasy, unable to digest the words; certainly he had heard that wrong. “With a _what_?”

The boy took a deep breath. “When I was four-and-ten, my father and eldest brother traveled to Winterfell upon Robb Stark calling his bannerman. I begged to go along, but my father wanted me to stay behind with my sisters and two of his uncles. Once they left, I had never seen the Last Hearth so empty. I also had never been so free. There was a boy who stayed behind, the son of my father’s steward who was only a year older than me. We had always been friends, but something changed once we no longer had so many eyes on us. My uncles hunted most days, so I never worried about creating suspicions about how much time I was spending with him. 

“One morning, I kissed him in the godswood and he kissed me back. It made sense to me then. I had never been with a woman, nor did I ever wonder what it would be like to kiss one or lay with one. But when I kissed him, I understood why. I realized I was different from my friends and brothers. I also realized that I loved him.

“Gareth was visiting Karhold at the time, so I assumed he would ride alongside the Karstarks to Winterfell. But I was wrong.” He paused when Ghost returned. Once the beast curled up just beside him, Cregan scratched behind the wolf’s ears. “We were never close, Gareth and I,” he went on. “He returned to the castle late one night and came to my chambers once he heard I stayed behind, calling me a coward and the like. When I wouldn’t open the door, he beat it down and found Edric and I. He didn’t say anything at first. After I begged him not to tell our great uncles, he gave me his word and ordered Edric to leave. Not another word was said between us before he walked away.

“About an hour went by before Gareth returned with a whore from the nearby town - a woman. He stood in the doorway and paid her a silver to strip off her clothes and climb into my bed. I prayed he’d leave after that, but he _just kept standing there_. The woman sat beside me as naked as her name day and then Gareth told me to touch her.

“But I wouldn’t do it. When he took out his dagger, I thought he meant to kill me, but instead he threatened to cut open her throat if I didn’t do what he said. So, I touched her.” Cregan’s hand shook as he pet Ghost’s fur. “And Gareth...he continued to stand there and watch me with his dagger in his hand. I knew what was next. He demanded that I lay with her, but I couldn’t. I _physically_ couldn’t. He saw that once she pulled the furs off my lap. I’ll never forget the look he gave me... _pure hatred._

“I thought it was over when he took the woman and left. When I woke up the next morning, Gareth was already gone. And Edric…” Ghost licked his hand, as if he could sense his distress. “The stableboys were the ones who found him. They screamed so loud we all thought we were under attack. No one besides me knew what happened. Edric was...almost unrecognizable when I saw him. I spared Queen Sansa the details, but you know as well as I what Gareth did to him.”

Sandor did know. _Beat him, gelded him, and left him for dead._ Hate crimes such as that were not uncommon in the capital. Sandor held out his hand and cleared his throat. “The wine, boy.” 

Once Cregan tossed it to him, Sandor opened it up and took a hearty swig of the spiced wine, deeply disturbed by the testimony. _To think Sansa could have wedded him_ … His brow was sweating. The absence of the frigid breeze was, for once, deeply missed, and the fire in front of him was not helping.

“Your brother was a sack of shit,” Sandor said before taking another swig. “Had I known, I would have settled for slicing off an arm during the duel so you could have finished him.”

Cregan gave a sad smile. “He who slays his kin is cursed forever. Gareth knew that too, else I wouldn’t be here.”

 _That never stopped me from wanting to kill Gregor all those years,_ he thought. _It took an encounter with death and atonement on the Quiet Isle to stop me._

Sandor took one last drink from the wineskin, then handed it back. “Well, I don’t give two shits where you put your cock, so long as it’s not in my wife.”

That made the lad laugh at least, but he could hear the presence of the pain - a pain that would never fully ebb. Sandor prayed he’d never come to know the feeling.

“You have my word,” said Cregan. “You are the consort to the Queen in the North, and I gave her my word, too.”

 _The Queen in the North._ Sandor looked down at the cloak in his lap and smiled. _Who better to be a queen than her?_ “And what did you tell my queenly wife?”

Ghost perked up upon hearing his master’s whistle, trotting off silently through the snow. 

“That I’d bring you home,” the Lord of the Last Hearth said, “or die trying.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Cregan Umber was the brother he should have had. 

As slow as the days were without Sansa, the hours were little less mundane now that he had company he could bear for longer than ten minutes. His relationship with Jon Snow had become cordial as far as good-brothers went, but he and Cregan spoke to one another without boundaries, like family, like brothers. 

And it wasn’t all good. They argued often, mainly over petty manners such as who would win in hypothetical duels and which strategies would be best for the wars to come. One time the argument became so heated that they decided to settle the matter with steel, the first to disarm their opponent being the winner.

Cregan lied when he said he was only a fair swordsman, or perhaps he was only too humble. He was better than half the men Sandor had ever fought, and far more skillful than his brother. But Sandor was stronger than him, and larger besides. He _could_ have won if he wanted, but watching the boy brag to Jon Snow about how he bested the Queen’s consort in combat was more amusing than winning an argument over where the infamous Dothraki should be placed in battle. 

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’ll be a good father,” Arya told him that evening, as they gathered wood and kindling for a fire. 

“Boys are easier than girls,” he muttered. When Sandor noticed her glaring at him, he added, “Don’t give me that look, she-wolf. It’s the bloody truth.”

“Not _that,_ even though you’re wrong about that, too. I told you Bran said Sansa will have a boy.”

“And I told you she will have a girl.”

She rolled her eyes at that. “Well, if it _is_ a girl, what will you name her?”

Somehow he had yet to think of that. He paused briefly. “I’ll let Sansa decide.”

“She’ll probably want to name her after our mother.”

“Catelyn? That’s a pretty enough name.”

“If I were you, I’d think of a boy name you like. A boy version of Catelyn or something that starts with a C. After our father was killed, every northman named their son Eddard. It’s _too_ common, so I doubt she’ll name him that now.”

Sandor considered it, for the sake of shutting her up. “Not Cregan, if that’s what you’re getting at. I’ll admit, I’m fond of the lad. Doesn’t mean I’ll name my son after him.”

“Obviously, I’m not _stupid_.”

He stopped and leaned against a tree, putting more thought into it. “Is Edric a respected name in the north?”

“Yes, Edrick Stark was one of the Kings in the North. You know that was Cregan’s-”

“Bloody hell, where do you think I heard the name from?”

That earned him a scowl. “That doesn’t even start with a C.”

“No, but Cedric does.”

Arya dropped the firewood onto the ground and looked up at him, her mouth agape. “Cedric Stark...Sansa will fucking love that.”

He did, too. It was a strong name, a good name, but it wouldn’t matter. Not right away, that is. Their first child would be a girl. And going forward, every time he thought about their daughter, he’d call her Catelyn.

More days passed, and each day brought less snow and wind, making their travels easier and their fears greater. _The calm before the storm._ There was no sign of Others, nor an undead dragon. _Maybe they couldn’t wake the beast,_ Sandor thought. _Maybe this northbound journey wasn’t for naught._

If he were a fool, he just might have believed that.

When they were a little less than half a day’s ride from Winterfell, Tormund Giantsbane’s horse collapsed, dead, an hour short of dusk. He saved the Horn of Winter from being crushed (not that it seemed to matter), and much as he did with everything else, the wildling bellowed out a laugh. “Crow, looks like I’ll be riding with you! Har!”

He wasn’t sure if it was that or the dead horse that gave Jon pause. “We should stop here for the night,” Snow said, surveying the land. “We will not reach Winterfell before the morrow anyway.”

Sandor would not have it; he was too close. _Too bloody close._ “I’m riding ahead.”

“It’s another eight hours, Clegane,” Jon sighed. Even cordial, the bastard still brooded. “Not even your horse can manage that.”

 _I thought you were eager to ‘meet’ your dragon queen,_ Sandor wanted to say, though it would have been a shame to return to Winterfell quarreling with one another again.

“He can rest here for a few hours first,” Cregan suggested. “I’ll go with him, Lord Commander.”

Jon yielded with a nod, and then three hours later, he and Cregan Umber continued south.

First light was only hours away when they arrived outside of Winterfell’s main gates. The guards posted atop the massive dark walls nearly shouted their arrival, but Sandor spat out a threat to them from below, commanding them not to inform Sansa he returned. He spoke with Cregan about it during their travels; he wanted to _surprise_ her. He wanted to see the look on her face when she turned over in bed and found him lying beside her. _If I can sneak up on her,_ he thought. 

She’d have the door to their bedchamber locked, he knew, and cursed himself for not thinking about taking a key before departing. The only person besides her that would have one would be the maester. Sandor found the maesters inside the turret below the rookery. They were all awake, despite the godsforsaken late hour, muttering to one another about her younger brother’s condition. Bran had yet to wake. 

“Ah! Your Grace, you’ve returned,” one of the elderly men said, forcing a smile. “How splendid.”

There was no splendor in that greeting, but Sandor couldn’t care less.

“A key to my wife’s bedchamber,” he demanded. “Now.”

The youngest of the maesters nodded and scurried over to a cabinet beside the diamond-paned window, unlocking it with one key to unveil hundreds more, one for every door inside the castle. The grey-robed man skimmed the contents for a moment before presenting him an iron key. When Sandor turned on his heel and descended the stairs to make for the Great Keep, the maesters continued their muttering, and he overheard one say, “...warg into a dragon.”

He was sweating and breathless by the time he approached the Lord and Lady’s bedchamber, the Queen’s now. The guard posted outside stood up taller upon his presence and bowed his head, feebly hiding the fact he had quite obviously been asleep.

“Leave,” Sandor commanded in a hushed tone, daring not to wake her up now. _I’m so close,_ he thought. _So bloody close._

The guard cleared his throat. His voice was still raspy with sleep when he said, “Her Grace has ordered me to-”

Sandor only needed to give him one piercing look before the man took off down the corridor without ever looking back.

After nearly two months spent apart, the only thing separating him from his wife was the oak and iron door before him. He grasped the handle and slid in the key, his pulse throbbing his neck, and then hesitated. Sandor placed his forehead against the door, as nervous as he was the first night they spoke together after three years apart. It seemed foolish to be shy around one’s own wife, and yet he hoped that feeling never went away. He’d be a fool for her. He’d be a fool for her gladly. 

There was only silence on the other side of the door. Sandor turned the key painfully slowly, inching it open just enough to peer inside, inch by inch by inch...

He let out a harsh breath, far louder than he intended. It felt like he had been blind his whole life and suddenly he could see.

There she was - Sansa Stark. His wife. _The Queen in the North_.

Lying atop the canopy bed, nude save for his white Kingsguard cloak that was draped over her midsection, Sansa slept with her right hand resting on her cunt while her left hand was propped on top of his helm just beside her. 

His cock threatened to burst from his laces.

Sandor eased the door closed behind him, wincing when the latch turned with an audible _click._ He looked over his shoulder and held his breath, feeling immediately relieved once he saw that Sansa continued to lay there motionless and unaware.

There was a tub full of water left inside the bedchamber. He inched his way over to it, daring not to make a sound, and placed his hand slowly into it to test the temperature. It was lukewarm. _The little bird took a late bath and attended to herself afterward._ He had never been so aroused.

Still holding his breath, Sandor undressed himself from head to toe. He had half a mind to bathe or at least wipe down, but there was no way that would go unnoticed, and waking her would ruin the surprise; he knew _exactly_ how he wanted to surprise her. _Before she sees that I’ve returned, I want her to feel that I’ve returned._

He was a predator on the prowl, and she was the unsuspecting prey. As he stepped lightly over the stone floor towards the bed, he noticed a bronze and iron crown resting atop the table - a dainty open circlet with two twin direwolves meeting at a point.

_The Queen in the North._

Sandor stood beside the bed and took his throbbing cock in his right hand, steadily stroking it to the sight of her breasts rising and falling with her slow, even breaths. They _were_ bigger, more than a handful now, and her nipples looked to be a shade darker, too. His mouth was salivating, longing to suck on them and make her squeal. He thought of waking her that way, then he thought of replacing the tender hand that rested on her cunt with his own.

But what ached more than his tongue, what yearned more than his hand, was his cock, hot and pumping with his blood. He could wait no longer. It was time. Sandor climbed on top of her, then spread her legs apart with his knee. He expected her to wake up and startle or scream, he even hoped she might slap him, but all she did was knit her brow, give a little whimper, and roll her head to the other side.

_So bloody innocent. So bloody beautiful._

He could spill just by watching her. He could spill just by smelling her. And if looked at her breasts any longer, his seed would soon be painting the inside of her thigh. Sandor took a deep breath and filled his nostrils with that familiar scent, lavender and rose but mixed with something new, something just as sweet. Her hair was still wet, and the pillow underneath her damp. He looked down and was tempted to remove the cloak that still blanketed her belly, until he became distracted by the auburn curls between her thighs, realizing only then that she had shifted her hand over.

Everything about her looked more radiant, more vibrant. The pink in her lips, the cooper in her hair, the milky color of her skin. He wondered why he continued to torture himself by only staring; one inch was all that separated him from feeling her insides for the first time in three fortnights. The wet heat from her opening radiated against the head of his cock, as if it were guiding him to where he belonged, where he was needed.

And he was ready to give it to her. 

Sandor fixed his eyes on her face and whispered, “Little bird.”

He felt a chill on his face when she gasped, and as soon as those two blue eyes shot open and blinked rapidly up at him, he brought his hips forward that last inch.

There were times Sandor thought he wouldn’t fit inside her tight cunt, and this was one of them. His grip on reality was lost once he felt that soft, warm, wet little hole gradually stretch open for him. “Seven fucking hells!” he groaned. It felt better than the first time with her, and he had been convinced that _nothing_ could feel better than that. He forgot all about the Others and the Wall and the wars to come; all that was real, all that mattered anymore was _her_. She was his world, and fucking her senseless became his only purpose. 

He kissed her lips as they parted in an “O”, moaning into her mouth once his balls were flush against her arse. From the moment he entered her, her cunt rhythmically milked his cock, squeezing even tighter once he started to pull out, as if begging him not to leave. “Sansa,” he exhaled, his voice heavy with lust. “Sansa...fuck!” 

All the things he wanted to say to her were lost, all the declarations of his love and desire forgotten once their breath mingled and their bodies became one. Four powerful thrusts was all he could deliver before his balls lifted and he was filling her with his seed, grunting and groaning wildly as her tongue mapped the inside of his mouth. Yet even once he reached his peak, his hips continued to undulate, and somehow his cock remained fully erect; he couldn’t stop. 

And he wouldn’t. 

He thrust his hips back and forth, encouraged to quicken his pace each time he felt her tighten around his shaft. Those two dainty hands found their way to his face, caressing his cheeks with a gentleness that brought him to tears. He grabbed the wooden headboard with one hand while the other seized her waist, pinning her down beneath him as he rammed into her cunt. The bed shook violently, his helm tumbling off the edge and crashing onto the floor. Even as the headboard was slamming against the wall, Sansa’s high-pitched moans were louder still. 

While his cock stirred the seed he spent inside her, his mouth trailed from her lips down to her darker nipples, sucking and gnawing on her flesh and eliciting those squeals he loved to hear. Sansa didn’t just smell different, she tasted different, too, sweeter and better than anything in the Known World; he quickly regretted not tasting her cunt before he soiled her natural flavor with his seed. 

Her hips thrust upward in time with his own, their skin slapping together for the whole Keep to hear, and then she was _cursing._ Sandor might have laughed had it not made his cock pulse every time a vulgar word passed those rosebud lips.

“Oh yes, fuck me,” she moaned, more brazen than he had ever heard her. His gaze lifted from her breasts, meeting those two blue eyes, more striking than those he saw beyond the Wall. “Fucking give it to me, Sandor.”

“Oh fuck.” When it was his time to depart the world for good, he wanted to die like this. 

_She is still so innocent,_ he thought. _Begging me to fuck her and still so bloody innocent_. 

Sandor did as he was bid, and he did it harder than ever before, watching her rounder, fuller breasts bounce each time he delivered another thrust. He fucked her hard enough to make her curse again, he fucked her hard enough to make her cry, and just when he felt himself about to spend himself inside her again, her cunt spasmed, becoming even wetter, as if her fluids were _shooting_ out. Sansa cried out his name, digging her nails so deep into his neck that he could feel blood beginning to bead; it was the sweetest pain there ever was. 

He joined her then, pressing his forehead onto hers and spilling a second load inside her to add to the copious amount of fluids. 

His cock did not remain hard after that, and pulling out of her embrace was as physically painful as it was mentally. _I can’t ever be away from her again,_ he thought. _Fuck going south. Fuck the Iron Throne. Fuck the dragon queen._

The sheets underneath her were soaked. Sandor rolled off and just as quickly pulled her to his side. “My...little bird,” he said in between erratic breaths, forking his fingers through her damp hair. “My wife.”

“My husband,” she breathed, sniffling into the side of his chest. Sansa tore off the cloak that had been draped over her belly, all but sticking to her skin due to the sweat, and then took his hand in her own, placing it on the small, firm swell that developed there while he was gone. “The father of my child.”


	24. Sansa XII

As their hips rocked together in a slow, even cadence, Sansa’s soft, pale fingertips combed through the coarse, dark hair on her husband’s chest, eliciting a throaty growl when they grazed over his nipple. 

Sansa smiled against his mouth. “Do you like that?” she whispered, brushing her fingers over it again.

Sandor answered with a bass note that rolled in his throat, then pulled her in closer. His nipple stiffened.

 _He certainly does,_ she thought, as she continued to circle it with her thumb. She loved that about them; no matter how many times they lay together, there was always something to learn about one another - what they liked, what they loved, what they needed. Much like there was always a new way to lay with one another, limitless innovative positions that could only be conjured up by equally lascivious minds.

And, so far, _this_ position was the most intimate of them all. 

Facing one another with their lips passionately interlocked, they laid on their side with Sandor’s arm firm around her waist and her leg straddling his hip. Each time he brought his pelvis forward, Sansa would meet him halfway and whimper into his mouth as her sex was filled. She was sore and tender, but every stroke satisfied her all the same. The pain reassured her that he was real, not a dream, nor an hallucination. Hips swiveling, cock sinking, cunt opening, the pain reassured her. 

Her husband was real. Her husband was alive. Her husband was home.

Every morning, Sansa awoke to those two words: _little bird_. But when she heard him in the middle of the night and opened her eyes, it wasn’t the canopy of the bed she was staring at, but _him_. She had been convinced that she was only dreaming until he entered her, then she had been convinced it was his shade that was fucking her, his ghost that had slipped through her latched door and surreptitiously positioned himself on top of her. It wasn’t until she felt the warmth of his seed shoot inside her fiercely did she realize it was him, real and alive and _home_.

Something had overcome her then, needy and wanton. She wanted him so badly it hurt. She wanted _it_ so badly she hated him for making her go three fortnights without his touch. Ever since becoming with child (that is, once she no longer became sick each morning), Sansa found herself in heat nearly every moment of the day. Pleasing herself took the edge off, but only for the briefest of moments. She had a hunger only Sandor could satiate. She had a need only Sandor could fulfill. And once she finally had a taste, she could not control herself. 

She had been ravenous, cursing and crying and sweating, feeling her grief expel from her body as she came around his cock for the first time in months. He had spilled inside her again, a second reassurance. _He’s real,_ she had thought. _Real. Alive. Home._ Sansa lost count of how many times she repeated those three words to herself. If she spoke it into existence, surely it would remain true.

Afterward, when she guided his hand onto her growing belly, he had cried. Sansa had already been sniffling, but when he placed his lips onto the little swell and quietly said, “Catelyn,” she wept. 

Sansa utterly sobbed.

_Real. Alive. Home._

They had bathed together in the tub that was much too small for the both of them, despite the water being cold. In order to manage the limited space, she had sat in his lap and scrubbed him clean, washed his long hair with the same fragrant oils she used, and then when his cock jutted upward against her cheeks, Sansa rode him until half the bath water ended up on the floor. 

First light was trickling in through the shutters by the time they had returned to bed. They had talked for the better part of an hour, discussing all that had happened in the months apart, before he made his way down between her legs. According to him, every part of her tasted sweeter than before now that she was with child, and she lost track of how many times he commented on the size of her breasts. “They’re so bloody big, I’m like to die,” he had told her. Sansa couldn’t remember a time she had ever laughed so hard. 

After Sandor had made a feast of her sex, licking her until she cried and refusing to stop until she begged for it, she must have fallen asleep, because when she awoke she could not remember having cuddled up beside him underneath the furs. While listening to the plethora of sounds in the yard and watching him sleep, Sansa had decided it was _her_ turn to surprise _him_ by wrapping her leg around his waist, spitting into her palm, and working his cock until it was as stiff as iron in her hand.

He hadn’t even opened his eyes before taking her waist and sliding inside, finding her mouth with his own as he delivered strokes so intimate she thought her heart might burst through her chest. Even then it felt like a dream, caressing his skin, stimulating his nipples, feeling their bodies move together as one. But no dream could ever be so sweet, nor feel so genuine. Not for this long. 

He was real. He was alive. He was home.

Just as her pleasure was reaching its apex, Sandor released her waist. She gave a disapproving whimper, cursing the sudden chill on her skin, until his hand spanked her ass. She squealed and thought, _Oh yes, much better._ Sansa hooked her leg around him tighter and dug her heel into the back of his thigh. _So intimate,_ she thought, _so close._ Listening to the soft, wet sounds that came with every rock of their hips was nothing short of cathartic. Sansa had been in such a state of serenity that when he burrowed his hand into the groove between her cheeks, her mouth parted open, gasping.

“Do you like that, little bird?” The words sounded much more mischievous coming from him. _Of course I do,_ she wanted to say, but could not manage a single word once he teased her opening with the tip of his finger, groaning when the walls of her sex clamped around him in response. 

She felt so _full_. Sansa let loose, bucking her hips quicker and quicker until _she_ was the one fucking _him._

“Bloody hell.” Sandor almost sounded afraid, but more than that he sounded like he fucking loved it. The response was all she needed; her movements grew languid as she climaxed, biting his lip and feeling a numbness develop in each of her limbs as she rode out her peak. He returned his hand to her hip and held her still, picking up the pace to chase his own peak. Gooseprickles rose on her skin when she heard him groan; no tune could ever sound so pleasant as the groan of the man she loved enthusiastically losing himself inside her.

_Home._

Just as soon as their bodies grew still, a knock came at the door.

“Your Grace,” said Maester Henly, the youngest of the maesters whom was visiting from House Slate. “The Lord Commander and Lady Arya have arrived at the south gate with their party.”

He was stammering. Sansa wondered how much of _that_ he heard. 

“Thank you,” she called out, her voice hoarse from sleep and sex. “Please inform them I’ll be right down.”

“Seven hells,” Sandor cursed, eyes closed and unmoving. “What time is it?”

Sansa looked over her shoulder at the closed window and studied the direction of the sun rays that came in through the shutters. “Noon,” she sighed, then begrudgingly pulled herself away from his embrace. He grunted as his cock fell out of her, slapping wet against his thigh; the emptiness that followed made her want to bawl. She would have sooner never left her bed, but she was a queen. Queens were seldom allowed to tumble their husbands all day - _good_ queens, that is. 

Once she and Sandor cleaned up and dressed, he picked up her crown from the table, a bronze and iron circlet much like the crowns worn by the Kings of Winter but surmounted with two direwolves in place of spikes. Sandor placed it onto her head, took a step back, and then examined her for a moment in silence.

“The Queen in the North,” he said, slowly and with reverence, “but always my little bird.”

Sansa dissolved into tears.

Minutes later after she gathered herself together, they walked hand in hand into the bustling courtyard outside the Great Keep. There were more people every single day. No matter where one looked, men were sparring with swords, and some of those spars were not spars at all but heated duels. 

_There’s little else for them to do,_ thought Sansa. _It’s a game of waiting._

Men from all over Westeros came to swear their swords to House Stark and the North. Some came with a sense of duty, some came simply because they despised Cersei Lannister for what she had done to the Tyrells, but the majority came with the hopes of being knighted should they prove their valor in battle. The more help, the better, but more help meant more mouths to feed. The ever present threat of a food shortage was as stressful as the Others. According to Tyrion, Daenerys’ armies would be bringing an abundance of provisions, but whether their queen would share those provisions remained uncertain.

Sansa found her little sister standing in the middle of the yard with her head tilted towards the sky. She looked unusually perplexed. Across the way, Sansa spotted Cregan’s men stabling the horses along with Tormund (whom she would need to inform that her chambermaid was pregnant with his child), Edd Tollett, and Gendry. There was no sign of their brother.

She gave Arya a hug and a kiss, then perused the yard once more. “Where’s Jon?”

“He went with _her_ ,” Arya grumbled, wiping away the few flakes of snow that had landed on her face. “He took _her_ to the solar.”

“What, already?” Sansa could not say why she was surprised. Despite having never met him, Daenerys spoke of Jon every day, as if their souls had somehow already connected. It was curious, to be sure. “Sandor told me what happened beyond the Wall,” she said, shivering at the thought of his encounter with the Others. “He needs to visit the maesters and have his leg attended to.”

“He will,” Sandor interposed, “once his cock has been attended to first.”

Arya threw a fist against his chest. “You're fucking disgusting!”

Sansa wondered what she was trying to achieve by that. It was like watching a pebble being thrown at a castle wall. 

He ignored that and fixed his gaze at the armory. “Ah, there’s the bloody Kingslayer. Golden haired twat would show up while I’m gone.” Sandor squinted. “Is that a woman with him or a man with teats?”

“That was unkind,” Sansa reproached him gently. “That’s Brienne of Tarth. I told you about her.”

“I don’t recall that, girl. Must have been when my face was buried between your thighs.”

Arya didn’t even bother hitting him that time, but instead rolled her eyes and stomped off towards the stable.

“Thank the gods.” Sandor took her hand and led her through the chaotic yard. “Come, little bird. Time for you and the little one to break your fast.”

Sansa giggled. “It’s an hour past noon.”

“All the more reason you need to eat.”

“I know what I’d like to eat,” she said, with a coquettish smile.

All at once, Sansa was being lifted into the air. She screamed with delight, attracting the attention of every person in the yard, though in that moment she could have sworn they were the only two people in the Known World. He cradled her in his arms, just as he had on their wedding night, and said, “Keep talking like that and I’ll bend you over the nearest table and put another child in you.”

Inside the Great Hall, they lunched on beef and barley stew, carrots, and fresh baked bread. It was not much, but to her it felt as extravagant as a southern wedding feast. Her appetite had been all but nonexistent with Sandor gone, not to mention the aversions to food she had experienced weeks ago that often ended up with her leaning over a bucket. But just then, in the company of her husband, Sansa ate better than she had in three fortnights.

_Home._

Being together again made her feel as if she had not truly been alive during his absence, only breathing and getting by with the bare minimum of food and sleep. But _with_ him, she was thriving. Sansa couldn’t remember a time in her life that she had felt so content, so blessed by the old gods, so…

 _The Others._ The reminder gave her considerable pause. _Bran. Cersei…_

Somehow, she had forgotten. Somehow, the darker part of reality had briefly slipped away. There were still two wars to be fought, both of which would occur on an uncertain timeline. With Bran still unconscious and Daenerys’ dragons hunting gods know how many leagues away, no one could say if the Others _did_ manage to resurrect the fallen dragon Viserion, nor could anyone say if the Others found a way to pass the Wall without Joramun’s horn. Nevertheless, they prepared, for it was either prepare for the worst or rue the day their doubt would doom all of humanity. Daenerys’ armies were expected to arrive within a week’s time, and from there…

Sansa had become so lost in her thoughts, mindlessly pushing a carrot around the plate with her fork, that she jolted in her seat when Sandor shouted, “Umber!”

The men and women seated inside the hall hushed at once. It wasn’t until Cregan approached the dais with a smile and the two men patted each other on the back did the muttering resume.

 _Sandor did not lie,_ she thought. _They really do get along._

It was the strangest thing to witness, like a wolf walking on its hind legs. Much like she had initially been skeptical about the younger brother of Gareth Umber, she did not doubt that Sandor would be, too - _more_ than skeptical. Yet, by the grace of the old gods, the two spoke to one another as if _they_ were brothers; it was sweet, in the saddest sense, to know that they bonded over a mutual past of heinous, unforgivable acts committed by their elder brothers.

The lord bowed to her. “Your Grace.”

“Good afternoon, Lord Umber. You lived up to your word,” she said, brushing Sandor’s hand with her own. “And I will never forget it.”

“What my queen requires, I shall provide.”

Sandor snorted. “You sound like a bloody Hand.”

She dropped her fork onto her plate, greeted with an epiphany.

“I would not be worthy,” Cregan said, before she could consider it any longer. “Queen Sansa, I was sent by the Lord Commander. He wishes to speak with you and your husband inside the solar.”

“Snow’s ordering us around, eh?” Sandor asked, before chugging a cup full of water. “He’s Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, not a bloody king.”

“His leg _is_ injured,” Cregan reminded him, a bit defensively. “Maester Rhodry is finishing up with him as we speak.”

“Good. Carry him over here, then.”

Sansa bit her lip to keep from laughing, until she noticed the Lord of the Last Hearth lower his eyes, blushing. 

“Seven fucking hells,” Sandor said under his breath, “you want to fuck Snow, is that it?”

“Sandor!” she chided.

Cregan rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s all right, Your Grace. No, I do not desire to...lay with the Lord Commander. He-”

“Likes cunt?”

“Sandor!”

“He and Daenerys Targaryen…” Lord Umber trailed off, sighing. “Forgive me, that is not for me to discuss.”

Quite abruptly, Sandor stood from his chair and placed a hand on Cregan’s shoulder. “You can do better than Snow, boy. He broods too much and talks in riddles.” 

Sansa tilted her head. “Talks in riddles?”

“Riddles, poems. I’ll mention it next time he does, little bird.”

A smile played on her lips. _Sandor will be a wonderful father,_ she thought, running her hands along her tiny bump. 

Cregan laughed. “He does brood quite a lot, I suppose. Well, if you do not show up to the solar, he _will_ be brooding.”

Upon leaving the Great Hall, Sandor once again led her once through the buzzing yard to reenter the Great Keep. They found her half-brother sitting at the head of the table inside the solar with Maester Rhodry seated to his left. Jon’s leg was elevated in the maester’s lap where he was finishing up with the stitches.

Dark brown hair tousled, face paler than her own, and visibly thinner than he was when he had left, the sight of him filled her with deep concern. “Oh, let me see.” Sansa knelt down beside him, no longer bothered by cuts or wounds or blood, not since she was a child. The gash on his calf was several inches long, but clean and neatly sewn up. “How long will it take to heal?” 

“Several months, Your Grace,” the maester answered. “Lord Commander Snow must needs keep off his leg as much as possible. I recommend that he use a walking cane to get by, only when it is absolutely necessary.”

 _He will not be able to fight,_ was Sansa’s first impulsive thought, though she did not dare say that aloud. It was clear in Jon’s doleful eyes that he knew it, too.

As the maester lowered Jon’s foot onto the ground and walked over to the hearth, she and Sandor sat beside one another at the table. For whatever reason, likely about Cregan, if she had to guess, Sandor snorted a laugh. She immediately gave her husband a sidelong glance.

 _Sandor, for the love of all the gods, do not say anything clever_. He would have seen her silent plea had his eyes not been fixated on her cleavage.

Jon sat up straighter and feigned a cough, masking a groan of pain. “Sansa, I would first like to offer you my congratulations. Maester Rhodry informed me that you are with child. It has been years since I’ve received news that has brought me such joy. You, more than any woman, will be a caring, loving mother. You-”

Sandor leaned in closer to her and whispered, “Riddles and poems.”

Despite herself, Sansa broke into laughter.

Jon brooded. “Did I miss something, Clegane?”

“No,” Sandor said, so serious. “My wife was eating when you _summoned_ us. Go on and say what it is you need to say.”

“Very well. I spoke with Daenerys,” he began. “She-”

Sandor snorted. “Judging by the appearance of your hair, I’d wager you did more than just speak.” Sansa might have laughed at that, too, had it not been the truth. 

Color rose to Jon’s face. “As I was saying, she has agreed to ride no further than the Gift to survey the Wall once her dragons return from hunting.”

“And what did you need to do to reach that agreement, Snow?” her husband persisted. 

_Sandor is enjoying this too much._ Sansa gave him a threatening sideways glance, but his smirk revealed that he enjoyed that, too.

“In addition,” Jon went on, “she has agreed to put her armies in the vanguard of the battle against the Others. She says the Unsullied fear nothing and the Dothraki fear no one. That being said, I believe it is only honorable that the northmen reciprocate and lead the attack in King’s Landing.”

Sansa had to fight to keep herself from furrowing her brow. _You are a fool if you think the northern lords will take such a risk to win a throne they no longer bow the knee to,_ she wanted to say, but said instead, “For now, let us focus on the war here. I can discuss your proposal with the northern lords once we travel south.”

Sandor’s head snapped so quickly in her direction she thought he might fall out of his seat. “ _We?"_

She blinked at him. _We never did get around to discussing **that**._

“I must go - I am their queen. It is my duty to lead my men to war.”

He chuckled as if she had told a jape. “I’d sooner gouge out my eyes than watch you step foot outside this castle.”

“It is admirable of you, Sansa,” said Jon, “but the journey is far too demanding.”

Out of the things she hated, being spoken to in a condescending manner was what she loathed the most. Sansa clasped her hands atop the table. “Pardon me, but I’ve ridden south.”

“Not with child,” Sandor swiftly added.

“We will bring along several maesters. If the concern is that I should not ride on horseback, I can arrange to have a wheelhouse built like that awful one I rode in with Cersei years ago.”

Jon turned to the maester who was soaking bloodied cloths in a pot that hung in the hearth. “Maester Rhodry, what would you advise?”

The old man lifted his head, the deep wrinkles on his face bunching together into a mask of pity; she knew the answer at once. “It would be most wise to remain here, Your Grace. For your health, as well as for the child’s.”

“The northmen will understand,” stated Jon. “And Sandor will lead in your stead.”

“No!” she exclaimed at once. “It will be several months before you return and I will not suffer the distance any longer! Every time Sandor and I are together something comes along to rip us apart.”

Jon winced. "It will only be once more." There was something in the tone of his voice that convinced her that would _not_ be the case.

“I say we don’t go at all,” Sandor broke in. “Bugger your dragon queen and bugger the Iron Throne.”

The maester nearly tripped over his grey robes as he was scurrying towards the door.

Jon waited for elderly man to exit before continuing, his eyes flashing with anger. “We’ve spoken about this, Clegane. Many of Daenerys’ men will die defending us against the Others. Would you not repay the debt?”

Sansa sighed, knowing where this was going. It was no longer good fun and teasing - it was personal. _As cordial as good-brothers go, Sandor told me. How is this cordial?_

“ _Repay the debt_ ,” Sandor mocked. “What do I look like to you, a bloody Lannister? It’s not as if _our_ men won’t die,” he pointed out, mouth twitching. “Besides, Snow, she would need to destroy the Others if she hopes to rule her six precious kingdoms. This is her war just as much as it is ours. The way I see it, we’re the ones helping her.”

“Daenerys could have decided to address the threat of the Others _after_ securing the Iron Throne. If it were up to her, she would be at war with Cersei Lannister as opposed to having her armies travel north.”

“Let her go, then.”

Jon looked at him, askance. “You saw them! We have no chance of defeating the Others without Queen Daenerys!”

 **_Queen_ ** _Daenerys,_ Sansa noted. _There it is._

Exasperation exuded from her husband. Suddenly, the air in the room felt too thick to enter her lungs. “We found the bloody horn! We wouldn’t need to battle the Others had she not flown over the Wall!”

“Do you think she expected her dragon to be harpooned with ice? She was searching for _us_!”

“She was searching for _you_!”

Mindlessly, Sansa clutched her belly upon listening to the bickering and shouts. Sandor was the first to apologize to her, though he did so while frowning over at Jon.

Jon flexed his fingers on his sword hand. “Sansa, would you mind giving us a moment to speak alone?”

_Oh no._

Sandor was seething. “You’re asking my pregnant _queen_ wife to stand up and-”

She quickly cupped his cheek with her hand, hoping it would be enough to subdue his anger. When the muscles in his jaw loosened, Sansa thought, _That worked...for now._

“It’s all right, I could use some fresh air,” she told him. 

Although Sansa had no intention of _actually_ leaving the keep, it was not a lie. The solar had become so uncomfortably sweltering she felt as though she might faint. Sandor yielded with a sigh through his nose and escorted her towards the door.

Once she stood inside the corridor, he straightened her crown and whispered, “Tonight, you on top, you wear this, I wear my helm.”

Sansa forgot to breathe. “Oh.”

“A queen and her hound,” he said with menace. “Would you like that, little bird?”

She might have been a queen, but all she could do was stare up into his eyes and nod her head up and down submissively. Sandor sent her off with a tongue kiss and then closed the door.

Sansa knew that she _should_ give them privacy, but a truer instinct told her to stay. _Forgive me,_ she thought, and gently pressed her ear to the door.

“...expect me to go to King’s Landing?” she heard Sandor rasp.

“You would not be the first man to leave his pregnant wife to go to war. My father left to fight in Robert’s Rebellion when his lady wife was with child.”

“When he ran off and fathered you?” 

Had Sansa been inside the solar, she might have slapped him for that. 

The wind outside was howling away. It had only occurred to her then she had not seen Ghost. She took a glance at the open window at the far end of the corridor. The snow was falling heavily, sideways and swirling. _Strange,_ thought Sansa, _it hasn’t stormed in weeks._

“My father is Sansa’s father and your child’s grandfather,” Jon scolded him. “I suggest you remember that before disrespecting him, especially in front of his bastard.”

“Whether your father had one bastard or a hundred, it’s no hair off my arse. The point is we’re different, he and I. Ned Stark may have left his pregnant wife to help Robert remove a Targaryen from the throne, but I'm not doing the same to put one back on.”

There was a long pause. She listened as the wind whistled through the window, the storm continuing to brew. She counted the passing seconds and made it to seven, before Jon said, “You will. Sansa will be here when you return, as will your child.”

“ _If_ I return.”

The words tied her stomach in knots.

“You mentioned you saw the three of you in the flames,” said Jon. “You, Sansa, and your daughter. That means you must live.”

 _Catelyn,_ Sansa thought. _We’ll name her Catelyn._

“I don’t know what I saw anymore,” she heard Sandor confess, his tone almost gentle. “Arya told me your brother saw Sansa give birth to a boy.”

“Perhaps you saw your second child.” Some seconds passed but there was no response. “There may not be any casualties at all, Clegane,” Jon went on, revisiting the subject of war. “Once Cersei Lannister sees Daenerys’ armies and dragons, I expect her to surrender.”

“Then what the buggering hell do we need to go for?”

She startled at the sound of a fist slamming on the table. “For honor!”

“For honor? Or for you to get some Targaryen cunt?”

Her mouth dropped open. Sansa squeezed the handle, anticipating to barge in the moment the sound of steel leaving its scabbard could be heard, but the only noises on the other side of the door were a drawn out breath and fingers drumming against wood.

“You remember the words I heard after I died,” Jon finally said. “I’m doing what is necessary to prevent that. We _will_ march south. We must.”

Another silence was born, save for the howling wind. Sansa wondered what it was that Jon had heard. It had to be profoundly grave to keep a man like Sandor quiet for so long.

And apparently, it was alarming enough to make him reconsider. “If I die, I’m going to haunt your bastard arse the rest of your bloody days.”

Jon was muttering something in response, but he spoke so quietly she could not make out the words. Continuing to eavesdrop without shame, Sansa took off her crown and pressed her ear painfully close to the door. It was no good. By the time she had done so, he stopped speaking.

Whatever it was he had said, it made Sandor bellow out laugh, and then Jon joined in soon after. They were good laughs, genuine laughs, laughs without the slightest note of derision. As she listened, the corners of her mouth turned up in a smile. _Cordial enough,_ she thought. 

Sansa had been so engrossed by the sound of her husband and brother getting along that she didn’t hear the sound of approaching footsteps, nor the sound of wooden wheels turning against the stone.

Almost drowned out by the storm’s winds, a voice as soft as the rustling of leaves said, “Hello, Sansa.”

She gasped and nearly dropped her crown, turning around to discover her little brother in his wheeled chair, with Meera Reed just behind him. Her eyes were as wide as her own. 

“Bran...gods be good.” Sansa did not know whether she wanted to laugh or cry, so she knelt down and wrapped her arms around him tightly, placing several kisses on his hollow cheek. “Oh gods, I thought you’d never wake.” With Sandor’s arrival, she had forgotten the guilt she had been harboring; it returned just then like a punch in the gut. “I’m so sorry, Bran. Oh gods, I’m so sorry. I should have never asked you to go beyond the Wall.”

“Your Grace,” Meera began, her voice trembling ever slightly, “I was reading to him and the next thing I knew he was awake. He told me he needed to speak with you at once.”

 _She’s terrified,_ Sansa realized. “Thank you, Meera. Please inform the maesters.”

The crannogwoman gave a quick nod, then took off down the corridor. 

Sansa stood up and wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand that held her crown. She attempted to read her little brother’s expression, but there was nothing to read. There never was, not anymore. 

“What happened, Bran?”

“I was in Rhaegal,” he said, casually. And then there it was: a smile. Not on his lips, but in his eyes. Blue eyes, much like her own, _smiling_ up at her. 

“Rhaegal...how...the dragon?” Sansa tilted her head to the side and felt an overwhelming sense of vertigo. “Truly? Where?”

“I flew west to Bear Island and then east to Skagos.”

 _What? Could he have come back all this time?_ she wondered. _Could the weeks of grieving for my husband have been avoided? Was Daenerys coming to Winterfell all for naught?_

“And then I flew north,” he added.

Sansa looked at him, incredulous. “To the Wall?”

Bran’s eyes darkened, no longer smiling. “There is no Wall.”

The words were piercing, like a knife twisting in her gut. She wrapped her arms around her belly, regretting not having gone outside, winter storm or not. The heat inside the corridor was as oppressive as it was inside the solar, despite the icy air rushing in through the window. When she felt like she was about to become sick, she inhaled deeply through her nose.

“The Others march south, then,” Sansa said with her exhale. It was not a question, only an acknowledgement of what they all knew was inevitable.

“Led by the Night’s King who has mounted Viserion. But Aemon is Azor Ahai reborn, and it is he who will defeat the Others.”

“Aemon?” Sweating and all but gasping for air, Sansa fanned herself with her hand, but all that did was make her sweat more. “Bran, you’re not making any sense.”

“Jon is not a bastard,” he informed her, his face so still it could have been carved out of salt. “He is Aemon Targaryen, the legitimate son of Rhaegar Targaryen and our aunt, Lyanna Stark. And it is he, not Daenerys, who will conquer the Iron Throne.”

The corridor spun round and round, as a chill ran through her as cold as ice. Her crown fell from her hand and tumbled noisily onto the stone, her eyes shutting upon the impact. Even in the darkness behind closed lids, she felt as if she were spinning in circles. The last thing Sansa heard was the door to the solar opening before falling back and fainting in her husband’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still here after 24 chapters, please know that I love you.
> 
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	25. Sandor XIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you x100 for your patience!  
> This chapter contains blood and violence. Also, angst. No surprise there. ;)  
> We are in the endgame now. Enjoy!

_Gentle Mother, font of mercy,_

_save our sons from war, we pray,_

_stay the swords and stay the arrows,_

_let them know a better day._

_Gentle Mother, strength of women,_

_help our daughters through this fray,_

_soothe the wrath and tame the fury,_

_teach us all a kinder way._

The hymn tore open a seal of nostalgia, taking him back to that one moment nigh on four years ago. 

Sandor could taste the blood and wine and vomit in his mouth, he could feel the tightness developing in his throat. He could even feel the weight of the dagger in his right hand, beseeching him to remove its sharpened point from that slim, pale, delicate throat.

_She sang for me,_ he thought, just as he had in the past. A single tear fell down his cheek. _Sansa Stark sang for me._

The circumstances might have been different, yet the moment remained very much the same. There was fear, there was battle, and then there was _her_.

Panting with exertion, he met those two eyes underneath him. Blue and glistening, innocent and pure, as maidenly as they were the first time she sang to him.

_Bloody hell,_ thought Sandor, catching his breath. _It’s all so similar._

When the darker memories of that night began to consume him like some ravenous beast, reminding him how he had frightened her, how he had yanked her by the arm and threw her onto the bed, Sandor took a moment to make note of the differences.

This was before battle, not after. The flickering light illuminating the comeliest face beneath him was of an orange hue, not green. And his right hand was not gripping the hilt of a dagger, but instead one swollen breast that fit in his palm just right.

Fingers softer than silk caressed his scars, wiping away the sweat and tears, then cupped his cheek just so.

“Little bird,” he exhaled, then he kissed her lips, just as he wished he had done the night the Blackwater burned. 

His cock throbbed in time with his steadying pulse, soaking inside Sansa’s cunt just a while longer. He dreaded leaving her warmth and embrace. But more than that, he feared leaving her. This night was always going to come - it was written, it was known. And no amount of preparation, mental or physical or spiritual, would have ever been enough.

It had been a fortnight since Bran Stark woke. And ever since, nothing had been the same. 

The Wall had fallen, the Others continued their march south, and Jon Snow would soon be the King of the Six Kingdoms. 

If they survived tonight.

Once Sandor's cock had softened inside Sansa's warm embrace, he carefully pulled out of her, grunting, and sat back on his heels. He watched as the chill inside the seventh floor of the crypts beneath Winterfell rose gooseprickles on her skin upon the sudden absence of his body heat. _Beautiful,_ he thought. They stared at one another in silence, faces illuminated by a single torch, their shallow breaths bouncing off the granite. He committed the sight to memory. For all he knew, this could be the very last moment he would spend with his wife.

Tonight, he would fight. Tonight, he would kill. Tonight, he could die.

Sansa sat propped up on her elbows, skirts lifted, breasts bared, legs spread wide. As he listened to the distant murmurs coming from the third floor of the crypt, he watched as his white seed slowly trickled out from her pink cunt. _Beautiful,_ he thought again. Just above he caught a glimpse of ivory where her skin was growing taut, his child growing robustly inside her womb. _Catelyn._ Sansa wasn’t very far long, three turns of the moon according to the maester, but she was already visibly pregnant. He wondered if it was her willowy frame that made her show so much sooner than other women he had seen at court, or perhaps his child would be larger than most. Whatever the reason, the more her stomach swelled, the more irresistible she became.

It was past time he looked away from the life he helped create and returned above ground to where death stood on the dark horizon.

He donned the armor he had removed minutes ago when he and his little bird decided on a whim to get in one last fuck before he’d leave her in the crypt and go into battle. As he clasped on the steel plate, Sansa slid on her small clothes and smoothed out her hair, silent. 

The unsaid words hung heavy in the air. They were both afraid, but neither would plant those seeds of doubt in the other's mind. He needed to convince her that he would return, and Sansa needed to convince him that she had faith. Despite their good intentions, the enduring silence failed to achieve either of those things.

Just as soon as they had finished dressing, hurried footsteps echoed throughout the hollow floor. “They’re on the horizon,” Arya said solemnly, then turned on her heel to hurry back up the stone steps.

_Four-and-ten and braver than I,_ Sandor thought. 

He picked up his helm and torch from the ground and then took Sansa's hand, leading her to the third level of the crypt. 

The floor was jam packed with nearly every woman, child, and elderly man in the North. Some prayed, some were already weeping, and others had fallen asleep as if it were an ordinary night. The maesters were there, as well as Lord Varys, whom had come with Daenerys Targaryen's army led by Jorah Mormont, and the Imp who had conveniently opted out of the battle.

_The she-wolf should be down here, too,_ he thought. _But I'd have to shut and seal her inside one of these tombs to get her to miss the bloody battle._

Sandor took his queen wife to sit amongst her maids. He lifted her chin with one finger and said, “Stay here and stay hidden." Looking into her moist eyes, a lump grew in his throat. He swallowed it away. “I’ve posted six of Umber’s men to shield the crypt, three inside and three out. I’ll come back, little bird. I always come back.”

“And I’ll be here for you when you do." Sansa took his hand and placed it on her belly. "We both will.”

If he stayed any longer, he'd never leave. With a kiss, Sandor departed, carrying his helm underneath his arm and never looking back. His heart pounded frantically like the drums inside the Great Hall on his wedding night. _Thump, thump, thump, thump._ Each time his foot hit the stone, his heart threatened to beat straight through his chest and pierce his armor. The frenetic rhythm of his pulse nearly left him deaf, yet somehow he managed to hear the whisper of his name.

Sitting nearest to the stairwell was Bran Stark, accompanied by a maester who stood just beside him. 

The boy looked at him, void of expression, and said, “Sandor, to your right.”

Perplexed, Sandor stopped and turned his head. All that stood to his right was the statue of some dead northern lord he did not know the name of. When he returned to the boy, he discovered that his eyes were two white orbs. 

_Gone,_ Sandor knew. _Gone into that bloody dragon._

Ever since Bran's long sleep, the one that went on for weeks, he had been acting even stranger than usual (which no one had thought was possible). Warging into dragons, returning to the past, visiting what he could of the future (though that was limited, according to him), and even witnessing the conception and birth of Jon Snow to confirm his parentage. 

_A boy shouldn't have so much power_ , Sandor thought. _If he is only a boy_... 

Shuddering, Sandor left.

Upon exiting the crypt, he saw Arya making long strides across the hectic yard. It was swarming with men, each rushing to where they'd been commanded outside the gates. Beside the she-wolf was the Kingslander bastard, wearing chainmail and carrying a war hammer he had forged for himself a week ago. The weapon reminded Sandor of Robert Baratheon. A lot about the boy did, in fact. Dark hair, blue eyes, natural strength. For all he knew, Gendry could very well be Robert's bastard son. It did not matter, not now. Whoever his father was, the boy led the she-wolf out the East Gate, despite Sandor's wishes. Arya Stark, the girl amongst men twice her age and thrice her size, fighting to the death.

Again, Sandor swallowed the lump in his throat, then crossed the yard, due north. 

Lord Umber stood just outside the North Gate, donned in full plate armor and wearing a great helm nearly identical to his brothers. That ripped open another seal of nostalgia, forcing Sandor to reflect on a moment he would have sooner never thought of again. The scar where Gareth Umber’s blade had sliced him open in the duel for Sansa's hand itched and burned. Sandor shook his head, clearing his mind of the memory, and then donned his snarling dog's head helm on the eve of chaos.

As the men made their way through the North Gate with haste, Sandor approached the young lord, greeting him with a firm pat on the shoulder. 

“Cregan.”

“Sandor.”

“Where’s the bastard king?”

“He’s-”

The sound of the sky splitting into two answered for him. Sandor tilted his head up and watched as the sibling beasts opened their jaws and shrieked into the night. The vibrations of their beating wings could be felt inside his chest, _t_ _hump, thump, thump_ , making his heart to skip over its own rhythm. Above the castle they flew, headed to the north, the two non-identical twins singing their battle cry. The green-and-bronze coiled through the developing mist like a serpent in a lake, with the former bastard of Winterfell mounted on its back. His black cloak of the Night's Watch was now embroidered with the red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, flapping wildly in the icy air. The larger beast came next, its scales as black as coal, mounted by the dragon queen who followed her husband through the hazy sky. 

_A bastard and a queen. A nephew and an aunt. And now a husband and a wife._

The wedding had occurred a fortnight ago. Jon Snow, now known to the world as Aemon Targaryen, had stood inside the godswood in the very same spot he had when he wedded Sansa. Jon's leg had yet to heal, requiring him to rely on his ironwood walking cane, its steel handle engraved with a running direwolf on one side and a three-headed dragon breathing flames on the other. He wedded the dragon queen in the sight of the old gods and, for once, looked complacent with his life - _more_ than complacent. It seemed strange considering the Targaryen’s practiced the faith of the seven. Then again, the bastard-turned-king’s mother _was_ of the North. 

Aemon Targaryen he might be, but Sandor would only refer to him as Snow, much like Jon continued to call him Clegane. 

The wedding feast had not been a feast at all, only supper. Daenerys' armies had yet to arrive in time for the wedding, meaning provisions remained limited. However, it did not matter. They could have dined on grass and piss and the newlyweds would have been as jovial as if it had been a seventy-course feast. Was it love? Or fear? Or duty? He did not know, nor did he particularly care. The union kept Snow from brooding as much, and for that Sandor was eternally grateful.

“ _Fire and blood_ ,” Jon had said to him that evening, as they drank ale beside the Great Hall’s hearth. “It was not a threat, only the words of my house.”

_You’re fucking your aunt_ , Sandor would have said, had Sansa not been giving him that rousing look from across the hall. Even while threatening him, she succeeded in getting his blood to rush south.

“Now that you’re her husband," he began, "inform her that the northmen will stay behind when you make for the Crownlands.”

The suggestion had made Jon choke on his drink. A shame it would have been had he not lived long enough to consummate his marriage. “Absolutely not, Clegane. I must needs honor the promises I made to my queen.”

“It’s _you_ who will be the king,” Sandor had remarked. “It’ll be your skinny arse sitting on that godsforsaken throne, not hers.”

“I may have the stronger claim, but I will not force Daenerys to stand by while I rule the Six Kingdoms.”

“ _Rule the Six Kingdoms_.” That had made him chuckle into his cup. “You've come a long way, Snow. We both have. What do you brothers in black have to stay about you abandoning your vows? ' _I shall take no wife, hold no lands_ ', all that shite.”

“I've other vows now. I must honor my House, my wife. I made those vows as Jon Snow, bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark. But now-”

“-you’re something better, now, is that it?” 

Jon had fallen silent for a moment, as if battling his guilt, then glanced in Daenerys' direction. “Now I have what I’ve always wanted.”

Sandor had looked at Sansa then and fully understood. "So do I."

“The Unsullied and Dothraki are split between the North and East gates," Cregan Umber informed him, interrupting his third bout of nostalgia.

“And the Knights of the Vale between the South and Hunter’s gates?”

“Yes. Lord Wylis sent his men from White Harbor to defend the South Gate, as well.”

Sandor snorted. “Of course he bloody did. He thinks it’s the safest place to be. Little does he know these bastards will try to fuck us from every angle.” Sandor passed through North Gate. Just ahead, Jaime Lannister was ahorse, commanding a unit of men. “Kingslayer!”

The younger of the Lannister twins put out a noticeable sigh, but approached all the same. “What is it, Clegane?” Jaime asked curtly. He was still an arse, but a more tolerable arse.

“Hold the gate from the inside. You’re as good as dead out here with one bloody hand.”

The Kingslayer laughed, as if a hundred thousand dead men were not approaching on the horizon. “I do believe you enjoy giving orders to a Lannister. The perks of wedding my brother’s former wife." When Sandor made to knock him off his mount, Jaime added, "A jape, Clegane. In any manner, I will not do that.”

He narrowed his eyes, despite them being hidden inside his helm. “Why not?”

Jaime pointed to his left, where the big woman rode past a list of men. “Where Brienne of Tarth fights, I fight.”

_At least you’ve found someone to fuck other than your sister,_ thought Sandor.

He dismissed the Kingslayer with a wave of his hand. As Jaime spurred his horse to join the big woman, Sandor turned to Cregan and said, “Be grateful for who you are, Umber. Around here, we’re all whipped by cunt.”

The mist thickened as the ominous seconds passed, blinding them of what stood beyond fifty feet ahead; the Unsullied and Dothraki vanished from sight. And then came the cold. To his right, Cregan Umber began muttering a prayer. 

Sandor placed a hand on his shoulder. “Look at me, boy. This isn’t your first battle. You fought against the Boltons.”

“Those were men,” Cregan said quickly. His helm could not mask his trepidation. “These are-”

“-men. _Other_ men. Men who will kill your queen, my pregnant wife, if you don’t kill them first. Your brother once told me it’d be him and I fighting together against the Others. Well it's _us_ , boy, and we can't lose. Do you hear me? We can't bloody lose!”

Cregan gave a nod. “I do. Thank you, Sandor.”

“Don’t thank me yet.”

Sandor walked ahead and faced the unit of northmen, the few he could see in the murky yard. “If I see one dead bastard pass through this gate, I’ll find the man who didn’t kill him and split open his skull like I did to Gareth bloody Umber!”

The words were wind, but that rallied them well enough. Hidden in the mist ahead, the Dothraki were screaming their own cries of war. The clamor came to a sudden halt when two spine-tingling screams filled the air, accompanied by the thunderous bass notes of leathern wings. _Thump, thump, thump._

He looked to the sky, watching as two shadows circled one another before splitting apart, one to the east and one to the west, disappearing in the fog. Silence, _thump,_ silence, _thump,_ silence, _thump_. And then came the golden light, bleeding through the veil of vapor, as blinding as the sun. Two long streams of dragonfire were scorching the earth on the horizon, raining down upon the army of one hundred thousand. 

_That will kill the wights,_ Sandor knew, remembering the conversation he had with Jon Snow a fortnight ago. _Fire kills wights, but only dragonglass and Valyrian steel can kill the Others._

And to their horror, there had not been enough of the obsidian to go around. Spears and daggers had been made from what the Night’s Watch brought to Winterfell, and then more weaponry had been forged once the dragon queen’s armies brought what they had mined from Dragonstone. Even then, three out of every ten men went without the dragonglass. Would the seven who did wield it be enough?

His time to ponder came to sudden end.

Amidst the orange flame that shone through the mist, a stream of sapphire poured from the sky, as equally blinding, as equally destructive. He could hear the dragonfire tearing up the earth from left to right as the undead creature flew by. Two swirling orange flames came in to stop it, but it was too late. The cloud hanging around them parted with the heat, and then Sandor discovered the aftermath: half the Unsullied were bathed in blue flames.

It was said they did not know pain, it was said they did not know fear, but no man, no matter how trained, could stifle the piercing, shrilling screams of being burned alive by dragonfire. 

And then, visible just beyond, came the dead.

Jorah Mormont led the charge of the Dothraki, mounted and riding forward to his inevitable demise. Sandor gave no order, not yet. _We need to hold the gate. If the gate falls..._

A second downpour of blue dragonfire rained down, cut short by the black beast digging its hind claws into the its brother's back. He could see it clearly now, the undead beast, its scales an icy blue, and then listened to the Dothraki's rallying screams because cries of sheer agony.

Sandor felt trapped, his breath becoming ragged in his throat. There was more fire north of Winterfell then there had been out on the Blackwater years ago. And in the span of minutes, their line of defense had gone from thousands, tens of thousands, to what appeared to be hundreds. 

He exchanged a look with Cregan. "The battle will never stay outside the gates," the young lord said. "We need to defend her from the inside."

The ice dragon was shrieking in the sky, flying east as it was being chased by its two siblings, a blue and black and green blur. 

_Inside. And they **will** come inside._

"Fuck," Sandor muttered. "Fuck!"

"Clegane!" he heard the Kingslayer shout. He looked to his left. "What's your command?"

_The only one I have now,_ he thought. _Taking the battle inside the castle. Taking the battle one ironwood door away from my wife._

He looked ahead at the onslaught, then turned around. His sword weighed heavier than stone. "Get the fuck inside the gates!"

That was all it took. It was all his men had been praying for. The North Gate opened, and soon a flood of northmen and wildlings was pouring through its entrance, drowning the yard inside. It was a violent effort, shoving and hitting and cursing and fighting. The lines of fire would have given them some time; the wights could not walk through the flames after all. But, in the span of a breath, those flames fell. The night grew dark once again.

Sandor had seen that beyond the Wall, when the fire inside the pit gave off a sigh just before dying upon the presence of _them -_ _The Others._

He and Cregan remained behind, waiting for the others to enter the castle first. But when Sandor saw what remained of the wights growing closer and closer, in tandem with the Others and their crystalline blades of ice, he grabbed the boy's arm and pushed their way through the gate.

The dragons flew by overhead; all three were screaming, and black blood dripped into 

“Close the gate!" Sandor ordered, as the undead vanguard was no more than a minute away from entering. "Close the bloody gate you fucking bastards!”

The iron bars made it halfway down, but it was too late. The wights came rushing in, lithe yet almost lazy in their movements, the bulk of their bones and flesh preventing the portcullis from closing. They crawled their way through, seemingly insentient beings, and then came an undead giant. The archers on the wall feathered the monster at the once, but it did not prevent the giant from seizing the portcullis and tearing it off into the moat. 

Their defense was up. And now, it was battle. 

Swiping his longsword left and right, Sandor watched as dead limbs flew off with as much ease as if he were slicing through thin branches on a tree. And little good that did. Each cut limb that fell to the ground continued to move and crawl - it was fire they needed. Desperate, men were throwing torches left and right, burning the wights who went up in flames at the instant it touched their rotting skin.

The yard grew brighter, bright as dawn, as more and more bodies were bathing in the flames. Sandor's pulse was roaring in his throat, but his fear would need to wait. Men were shouting and grunting and cursing all around him, jostling past one another to grab a torch, wood, anything that could catch a flame and fend off the wights. In the midst came an Other, taking smooth even steps through a pile of flaming wights, unharmed by the fire. And then the fire went out.

The white walker came at him with its sword forged of ice, as if he knew he had been one of the men to kill his brothers beyond the Wall. Sandor removed his obsidian dagger with his left hand while parrying the Other's attack with the sword in his right, swing, counter, parry, attack, until an opportunity as short as the flutter of a raven’s wing presented itself. As the sword of ice pulled back, Sandor lunged forward and sank the dagger underneath the Other’s chin. The white walker erupted into fine, glittering dust, and then swirled off into the hellish night.

Sandor took a small measure of victory, then looked ahead and observed a blade of ice decapitating a northman.

Back to back, he and Cregan fought off the encircling crowd of wights and Others, dismembering them with every blow of their swords, sinking the dragonglass into exposed flesh as needed. Fire was everywhere, orange and hungry, consuming wights as they climbed over the granite walls. Sandor could feel the heat inside his armor, sweating profusely, just short of being cooked alive. 

_Arya,_ he thought, feeling a strong and sudden instinct. _Where's Arya?_

He kicked a wight into a pile of burning corpses and looked over at the East Gate.

His body paralyzed. 

At some point, the ice dragon had come back around and spat fire into the eastern section of the yard. Twenty feet away, a man engulfed in blue flame fell onto his knees and cried for his mother. 

The seal of nostalgia was ripped open again, taking him back to the Battle of Blackwater Bay, but before Sansa, before he told the Imp to bugger himself. The sight took him past the gates when Stannis’ fleet burned green on the water.

The man was clawing at his face, as if he hoped to tear the flames off his skin. The dragonfire was melting him, skin falling wet and loose as candle wax, burning him to the bone.

A wight came up behind him, grabbing his neck. Sandor threw it into the fire, never looking away from the horrifying display in front of him.

_Blue flames, not orange. Blue flames, not green. **Blue**. _

He was motionless for a time, some seconds passing though it felt like an hour, numb all over, lungs empty and still, until he heard the shout.

“Sandor!” he heard Cregan shout from somewhere...somewhere. “Sandor!” His voice was coming from behind him, or was he in front, beyond the man melting into the ground? Sandor turned around and pressed his way through the stack of corpses, stumbling over men dead or dying. Just ahead was the Lord of the Last Hearth, his great helm missing, cutting through two wights with a single swipe of his sword; the dead men continued to slither on the ground. Tormund Giantsbane threw a torch on them and laughed. “Sandor! To your right! The crypt! The door! To your right!”

_To your right,_ he heard Bran Stark whisper, as clear as if his mouth was pressed to his ear.

The blood in his veins felt as cold as ice. 

_To your right, to your right_. How had he forgotten which was his right? The falling of stone, the dancing of flames, the strobing of blue and orange light in the sky left him disoriented. He found the First Keep, its dome roof now caved in, and shifted his eyes to where the thick slab of ironwood would stand barring the entrance to the crypt.

It was gone. And streaming out from its entrance, an orange blaze of fire.

Time came to a sudden halt, everything and everyone frozen in place, save for those vigorous flames standing where the ironwood door should have been. His mind could not process it, he could not wrap his head around the sight before him. Missing door. Missing guardsmen. Roaring fire. Gyrating orange banners protruding from where his pregnant wife was hidden away. For the first time since Gregor held his face down onto those burning coals, Sandor feared something more than living, stirring, shifting fire and lumbered forward, plowing his way through men, dead and alive.

Far off in the distance, a dragon was screaming, its cry the sound of a mountain of ice splintering into oblivion. 

Sandor stumbled towards the crypt, discovering a short stack of bodies lying atop the unhinged door. He felt a measure of relief when he saw the fire was not coming from _inside_ the crypt, only sitting just outside. The flesh of the bodies before him blackened and charred, wights and men alike, aflame. There would be no way to avoid the fire, its apex reaching up to his waist. Refusing to risk another second, Sandor lunged over the burning pile and descended down the narrow stone steps. 

The torches along the wall had burned out, and inside the perpetual darkness below, not a single sound could be heard. Sandor did not know whether that was promising or gravely alarming. _The fire outside will dismay the Others from entering,_ he thought. _Unless they put it out..._

Had a group of wights or Others already entered? Why were the sconces without flame? Had the stairwell always been so cold?

His thoughts made less and less sense. Battle did that. Death did that. Sandor took one step down and then another, descending the winding steps in a daze with his hand acting as his guide. As his steel fingertips scraped the wall and his feet landed heavily on the stone, bringing him further into the darkness, he found himself praying, not in spite, but out of desperation. His sentences were incoherent, his thoughts muddled, but it was all he could do. Pray to the gods and descend. Pray for his wife. Pray for his daughter. And Arya... 

Behind him, the sounds of men dying echoed inside the cavern of past Starks, and then Cregan Umber was shouting. _He's guarding the crypt,_ Sandor hoped. 

Ahead of him, there was naught but dead silence, and then then smell of burning flesh.

_No._

In between the second and third floors, the torch on the wall sustained a flame. Staring at it left him night blind after so many seconds in the darkness. Sandor squinted away and took it from the sconce, then descended onto the third level. 

He held out the torch and surveyed the floor.

The living were gone.

Scattered across the floor were several corpses, each engulfed in flame. The granite pillars were streaked with blood, and puddles of it glistened on the floor in the torchlight. Ruby pools. The corpses ablaze were not only wights. Some were women. Some were as small as children. 

Sandor doubled over and ripped off his helm, tossing it aside as he struggled to catch his breath. He’d seen worse, he’d seen far worse, but as his eyes went from corpse to corpse, he felt the swelling dread of discovering one that bore the semblance of his wife. 

He traded his sword for his obsidian dagger. If one of the bodies was Sansa, he’d swipe the dragonglass smooth across his throat.

The sound of the sky splitting into two forced him onto his feet. Reluctantly, he made his rounds, peering down at each of the corpses to examine their likeness. Dagger in one hand, torch in the other, Sandor inched his way forward, failing to recognize any of the faces. Some were foreign, some were completely gone. Even so, the bodies could not have been burning for very long. He judged them by their build and what remained of their hair and clothing. Sandor counted four women, two children, seven men, one of whom was a maester, and twenty wights. 

None of the four women were Sansa.

Only then did he take a breath and proceeded by returning to the stairwell.

_A lower floor. Sansa would have led them to a lower floor._

Coming from above were shouts and screams, and then another sound - a footstep, perhaps. 

Sandor held out his torch and looked up the spiral steps. “Who’s there?” he asked, his voice echoing for several seconds after. “...there...there...there…”

There was no response, nor was there another sound aside from the carnage occurring above ground. He squeezed the handle of his dagger and continued down the steps.

The fourth floor was empty, as was the fifth, an infinite expanse of tombs and statues. A grim thought occurred to him: one day, he’d be buried here, as would Sansa, their daughter… 

A thin mist arose, the flame snuffed out, and then the sensation of a knife scraping the back of his neck forced him to drop the useless torch. Sandor turned around and grabbed what was skulking behind him. An Other. A weaponless Other. Its translucent skin glowing faintly in the darkness, providing just enough light for him to aim. Just as Sandor made to drive the obsidian point into its unmoving face, the white walker grabbed his neck with a vice-like grip and shoved him back against the stone.

The impact forced the dagger to fall from his hand and tumble down the steps.

“Fuck,” Sandor gritted out, spittle spraying from his lips. He used all his strength to pull the hand away, but it was futile; its strength was not of this world. The skin on his throat started to burn, the Other’s hand colder than ice.

Its two blue piercing eyes stared at him for a moment, as if assessing who he was. Sandor heard the sound of metal scrape against stone, and then, all at once, the flaming eyes disappeared.

The hand clenching his neck fell away into dust, pattering onto the stone beneath his feet.

Without the fire and the glow of the Other’s skin, Sandor could not see a thing. But, to his right, he heard short, erratic breaths. He knew those breaths better than his own. 

Sandor blindly reached out his hand and pulled her to him.

“I...threw...the dagger,” Sansa said inside the darkness, breathing wildly. “I did it, Sandor...just like...you taught me.”

He took her face and dug his fingers into her hair. “You’re so fucking stupid!” he rasped, before finding her lips with his. “You’re so stupid, Sansa! You were supposed to hide!” He kissed her again, this time with his tongue. “Seven fucking hells!” His voice broke, preceding his tears. “Why, Sansa? Why?!”

She was speechless for a moment, sniffling, then said, “I told you...I told you I’d be here for you.” Sansa’s lips missed his mouth and kissed his scars, again and again. 

Sandor groaned in response. He wanted to thank her. He wanted to punish her for risking her life for _him_. More than any of that, he wanted to fuck her, rip off her dress and spank her, take her on the narrow steps as the world was coming to an end. He might have done it, too, had the cry of a dragon not brought him back to his senses. 

He kissed her, softly now, and ran his fingers through her hair. “Where are the others?”

“Three floors down,” said Sansa, her breaths stabilizing against his face. “They came, Sandor. Bran...they wanted Bran. And they killed-”

“I know, little bird.” He could scarcely hear Cregan shouting, but the words were as faint as Sansa’s breaths. “I need to go back.”

“N-no. No!”

“Arya is out there!” 

“Arya,” she repeated, as if the name were foreign to her. _She’s in shock,_ Sandor knew, _and she risked her life for me._ “Arya. How could I...where was she last?”

“The East Gate. I’ll find her and bring her here.” The words tasted like a foul lie as they left his mouth. _How will I ever find her?_ “The battle will last all-”

He made to say night, knowing week would be more fitting, but was interrupted when the sound of the sky itself came crashing down. 

The crypt beneath Winterfell shook, followed by the ancient stone giving way. 

He wrapped his arms around Sansa and pressed her against the wall, shielding her from the loose stone that fell due to the seismic disturbance. A chunk of the vaulted roof crashed against his back, denting the steel plate. A groan of pain passed his lips; had he not been wearing the armor, the impact might have broken his spine. Dust and debris continued to fall, but Sansa remained safe, tucked away underneath his build. It took another minute for the vibrations to settle.

And then, up above, there was silence. 

“Arya,” Sansa whispered, then placed her hands on either side of his face, shaking. “Sandor, Arya!”

Sandor had the urge to retch again.

He gave Sansa a kiss, placed a gloved hand on her belly, then stormed up the stairs.

There was light, firelight, near the first level, the flames lower now than they were when he entered the crypt. He stepped over the pile of ashen men and emerged into the night. Or was it almost dawn?

The great walls of Winterfell were smoldering. Up above in the jet black sky no longer covered with mist, two beasts circled one another, riderless and lamenting. It was the same noise Sandor heard at Castle Black when the dragons mourned their brother.

_Who are they mourning now?_

It wasn't silence after all. All across the yard, men were groaning and crying and burning and dying. Piles of men, piles of wights, piles of stone, yet no sign of the Others. Sandor felt a sharp pain in his right leg and looked down to discover that his armor was split near his thigh, his blood slowly trailing down the steel plate. He could not begin to guess when that had happened.

“Over here! Over here!” Cregan Umber called out just ahead. He wasn’t speaking to him, Sandor realized, but to a group of men exiting what was left of the First Keep; it was a ruin. It was all a ruin. Cregan was helmless, bleeding heavily from his brow, and attempting to pull out a screaming man whose legs were caught underneath a dead giant.

Sandor could not help, not yet.

“Arya!” he called out, stepping through the aftermath of the bloodbath towards the East Gate. “Arya!”

The castle was a lichyard. Every step he took he risked tripping over a body. More and more men exited the Keeps and Halls upon the war ending. He wondered how he had done it; Jon, Aemon, soon the King of the Six Kingdoms, was destined to kill the Night’s King, according to Bran, but Sandor had yet to see the former bastard of Winterfell. He had yet to see the dragon queen.

_Who are the beasts mourning?_

“Arya!” he shouted again. He passed the Guards Hall and spotted the East Gate. That is, where the East Gate once was. A third of the inner wall had collapsed into the ground, a pile of rubble that would, no doubt, have taken many lives when it fell.

Acid rose in his throat. He was about to double over again, until he observed a small body emerge from behind the armory. 

Arya Stark ran up to him, crying. He had never seen her in such a state, not even after the Red Wedding where her mother and brother had died. Some instinct kicked in, unfamiliar yet all consuming. Sandor picked her up and kissed her forehead, shushing her like a babe. She was covered in blood, her hair, her clothes, her face. The girl weighed nothing, a girl of four-and-ten, a survivor of the bloodiest battle he had ever seen. 

It was the boy, he knew. Whether Gendry was missing or dead, Sandor could not say, but the way she-wolf sobbed into his shoulder and clutched onto him made him fear it was the latter. 

“Where is he?” asked Sandor.

In between heaving breaths, Arya said, “I don’t know.”

That was a better answer than “dead”. He’d find the bastard once he found the other one, the Targaryen. Sandor continued to carry her with him, despite the searing pain in his thigh. 

The survivors began to survey the yard, some were even cheering, spent and delirious. He passed the armory, walking towards the main courtyard, and heard the loudest convulsive gasps of them all.

Sandor looked to his right. 

Long, pale silver-gold hair fell over Jon Snow’s arm as he cradled his wife in his arms. He was kneeling on the ground and weeping, rocking her back and forth. His albino wolf stood beside him, short of one ear and fur dirtied with blood and smoke. Ghost sniffed the dragon queen, then howled at the sky. The dragons joined in, their cries so cacophonous Arya wrapped her arms around his neck and screamed, “Make them stop! Please!”

He couldn’t. They were mourning their mother. 

Sandor halted in the yard, watching.

For the second time in his life, Jon Snow held the lifeless body of the woman he loved, amidst fire and blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some acknowledgments: 
> 
> The hymn in the beginning is word for word the Mother's Hymn from _A Song of Ice and Fire_. Credit, obviously, goes to GRRM. ;)
> 
> Sandor's breakdown ( _“You’re so fucking stupid!” he rasped, before finding her lips with his. “You’re so stupid, Sansa!"_ ) was inspired by the moment in Titanic when Rose jumps the boat and decides she'd rather risk it all with Jack than survive without him. (Titanic has been hinted at a few times in this story!)
> 
> And...Dany. I'm sorry. She didn't go Mad Queen in this story (there will be a discussion on what happened in the next chapter) but she did meet an unfortunate end. Please don't think I'm Dany-bashing because I'm not. I respect her. But, for my story, I decided to go this route.
> 
> Also, I know nothing about battle strategies. I think that's apparent. I hope those of you who are savvy in that subject didn't cringe too much while reading this. LOL
> 
> The next chapter will be much, much sweeter. ♥♥


	26. Sansa XIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long overdue. As always, thank you for being patient with me.  
> Tying up loose ends and building the pack.
> 
> Enjoy!

She awoke to the sound of dripping water, the even rhythm luring her into yet another sleep.

It couldn’t have been longer than an hour since she was last awake, for her dream was far too short. Sansa dreamt of a little boy with auburn hair playing with Ghost. And then, in the span of a flap of a raven’s wing, that little boy was a man grown, tall and broad shouldered, eyes sharp and grey, bearing a crown of bronze and iron spikes. A woman kissed his cheek, crying, hair dark and long, her eyes the same color as her own. “The King in the North! The King in the North! The King in the North!” Sansa heard, then _drip, drip, drip_ …

It was the sound of dawn. The sun was rising, the ice was melting, and the water was trickling from the roof of the Great Keep to form puddles atop the thin layer of snow that frosted the earth. Dawn brought beautiful sounds, its own little symphony. And this dawn, in particular, brought the most superlative of those beautiful, symphonic sounds.

 _A warmer day_ , Sansa thought, listening as the water dribbled faster now. _Winter is going._

Outside, a child was giggling and calling out for his father, replacing the usual song of swords. 

It was the promise of spring. 

_Drip, drip, drip._ Sansa’s eyes submitted and gradually opened. The shutters were still closed, but let in enough sunlight for her to survey the bedchamber. She was still laying on her left side upon waking, finding comfort in sleeping in the same position Sandor had made love to her an hour ago: right leg hiked up, left leg stretched out, left arm underneath the pillow, while her right arm wrapped itself around her heavy belly. 

Truthfully, it was the only comfortable position left, though it did not make the sex any less sweet. 

This was the eighth turn of the moon since becoming with child. Only one remained before Sansa would lay on her back in this very bed and give birth to their firstborn - their daughter. 

Much like she dreamed of the little auburn haired boy minutes ago, she dreamed of their little girl often. In every dream, she looked different. Months ago, Bran had said she’d have a boy matching the description of the one she saw in her dream, auburn of hair and grey of eye. However, out of all her unusual dreams since becoming with child, that had been the first she’d ever seen of a boy. More often than not, it was their daughter she dreamt about. That had to mean something - a maternal instinct, perhaps.

 _I pray we do have a boy,_ thought Sansa. _Someday. But first, we will have a girl, the same little girl Sandor saw in the flames._

_Catelyn._

Sansa stretched out her legs and then bent them, then she stretched them out again; they were restless. They were always restless. Being with child was a blessing, to be sure, but there was little beauty about it aside from fostering a new life. Sansa’s breasts had become heavy and impossibly sensitive, and would leak ever slightly each time she and Sandor became intimate. Not that he ever complained. 

Her belly had grown quickly, _too_ quickly, leaving her with the faintest red marks on her skin as it stretched - permanent marks, she knew. Sandor never complained about those either. He liked them just as much as her milky nipples. But the sickness, the emotional instability, the burning of her chest, the frequent trips to the privy, and legs that seemed to never rest were the things he wished she didn’t have. And, for her, the symptoms were more than enough to make a second pregnancy sound absolutely out of the question. 

“You’ll forget it all once you birth the babe,” said every mother she spoke to in the North. After the war, one woman from Winter Town explained how she had become with child for the second time when her firstborn was only four months old. Sansa wondered if that would happen to her. Considering how often she and Sandor found themselves tumbling one another in the sheets (and in the snow...and once or twice inside an emptied Great Hall), she’d be with child every year.

Sandor _did_ say he’d give her a castle full of children. Of course, that was easy for him to say when he wouldn’t be the one carrying and birthing them.

She was suddenly in a foul mood. Sansa emitted a long sigh. 

_Emotional instability._

After their early morning tumble, Sandor had departed the castle before first light to lead a hunting party into the Wolfswood (including her restless little sister). It wasn’t fair of her to be irritated by that, given she had been the one who encouraged him to go. In fact, Sandor had been very adamant about not leaving, claiming he needed to be there for her and the babe. But, considering Sansa still had a little over a moon turn to go, she had convinced him to oversee the task (primarily in hopes he’d acquaint himself with the northmen who remained in Winterfell after the war). The warmer weather meant that game would be returning to Wolfswood, and hunting game meant a solution to the winter food shortages, something that had continued to be a dilemma, even after the hundreds of casualties sustained by the North.

Sansa could still remember the smell of the burning bodies. There had been thousands of them, Dothraki and Unsullied and northmen and valemen, the wights...those women and children they needed to burn in the crypt. It was a sickening, terrible smell that lingered in the nose, its stench a reminder that while the war in the North may have been won, it had come at a great cost.

Her state of mind changed again. Now, she was crying. 

A knock came at the door, forcing her to wipe her tears away on the pillow. 

It was time to be a queen.

“Your Grace,” Maester Rhodry said through the door, “a raven arrived from King’s Landing.”

_A message from the king._

“Please, come in,” Sansa answered, her voice hoarse from sleep. The furs were tangled around her legs, leaving her nude from the belly up. She lazily kicked her feet to unwrap it, then pulled it up to her chest. It was not necessary to be so modest. Maester Rhodry would be seeing far more than her breasts when she delivered the babe in a moon turn’s time. And besides, Sansa was practically stuck on her side, the weight of her belly preventing her from sitting up without pain.

The maester entered with his usual genial smile, wearing a clean grey robe and his chain of many colored links. Before the war, he was in service to House Cerwyn, but afterward, Lady Jonelle had given him leave to remain at Winterfell and sent for a new maester to replace him from the Citadel. It was, in a way, a gift. House Stark did not have a designated maester since the death of Maester Luwin, and Sansa needed an experienced, trusted maester when it came time to push in the birthing bed. He’d be honored to serve House Stark. However, there were some days his smile did not reach his eyes, not in the absence of kindness, but in the presence of concern. 

Upon entering the bedchamber, he handed her the neatly rolled parchment. Still laying on her side, Sansa squinted and observed the red wax. The seal was unopened, its left half imprinted with the head of a dragon, its right half imprinted with the head of a direwolf, each baring its teeth. 

_Targaryen and Stark - the King of the Six Kingdoms._

Maester Rhodry gave a bow and left. His decision to leave before the message was read was not very promising. 

Still, she peeled the seal and unrolled the parchment. It was her duty as queen, no matter the content inside. 

_My dearest Sansa,_

_By the time this letter reaches you, the remainder of the Dothraki and Unsullied will have set sail for Essos. The ships took longer than expected to build. Cersei left little behind after burning the Golden Company’s fleet. Her surrenderance of the Iron Throne was more destructive than I could have ever anticipated. It will be years before the Kingswood is anything besides ashes and embers. Luckily, Lord Tyrion provided the coin to import resources outside of the capital, and Lady Asha Greyjoy provided the overseeing as the ships were being built._

_We named one Queen Sansa, and another Queen Daenerys._

_Rickon continues to acclimate. He teaches me Skagosi from time to time, but has yet to grow comfortable with Westerosi customs. He may be my cousin by blood, but some days it feels as though I have a son. Once he has been trained by my master-at-arms and taught letters and numbers by Sam, my maester, he will be ready to come home._

_As my Hand, Tyrion encourages me to wed the princess of Dorne, Arianne Martell. I hear many things about her - her wit, her beauty, her charm. Lord Varys thinks it to be a wise decision as well and, when faced with my refusal, reminded me of one word - duty._

_Arianne can be the wittiest, most beautiful, most charming woman in the Known World, but she will never be Daenerys._

_A fortnight ago, I received a letter from Lord Yohn Royce informing me of the happenings in the Vale. A good choice, I think, for the Lords of the Vale to give him the lordship of your late husband. The Eyrie is in good hands, even if no longer in yours._

_Drogon and Rhaegal have not returned since the Last War. They continue to mourn her, as do I. It is a pain that recedes, only to wash up again fiercer than before. I pray to the old gods, but the old gods do not hear me here._

_Pray for me._

_Give my regards to your husband and to your Hand, Lord Umber. To this day, I am grateful the northmen did not need to ride south. Cersei always knew she’d lose and spilled more wildfire throughout the city streets than I care to recount to you in this letter. Now, I can only reflect and wish it hadn’t come to that._

_I do hope you will visit once the city finishes rebuilding. Perhaps on your child's first nameday._

_Muss up Arya’s hair for me, tell Bran that I love him, and scratch Ghost behind the ear the next time he visits from beyond where the Wall used to be._

_I miss you all._

_When the babe is born, I will ride north. I have a feeling it is a boy. Until then, take care Sansa._

_Your brother once, your brother always._

_Jon_

A teardrop fell on the parchment, blurring out the name given to him by her father. It was not his true name, not anymore. Jon Snow was a guise he had unknowingly been under all those years. The bastard of Winterfell existed now only in memory, but they would be memories Sansa would cherish until the end of her days. 

Aemon Targaryen, the King of the Six Kingdoms, was beloved by those who survived Cersei’s tyranny. Even so, no throne nor crown could replace what he had lost. Sansa had hoped having Rickon stay with him in the Red Keep might help, after he had been rescued from Skagos. And perhaps it did provide a measure of comfort to have family around. But underneath the titles and responsibilities, he was a grieving widower. 

There were those who had seen what had happened that night, when Jon fought and defeated the Night's King, and then there were those who had only seen the aftermath. Sandor and Arya had been amongst those. When the battle was over, Sandor could hardly recount what it was he had witnessed in the yard. 

As smoke drifted off the castle walls and fire scorched the earth, Jon rocked Daenerys’ lifeless body in his arms.

It was haunting the way he had described it. Not only the description of Jon's grief, but the way Sandor had looked at her as he said it. The way he had held her tightly in his arms and wouldn't let go.

 _He was fearful it could have been me,_ she knew. Sansa set the parchment down on the bedside table and then placed her hands on her belly. The babe was kicking again, little feet battering against her ribs. Sansa winced. _And he is fearful it still might._

There had been something he wasn’t telling her, something lurking in the back of his mind that kept his expression as worried as Jon’s. He almost looked like a true northman, solemn and brooding about. During Winterfell's reconstruction, Sansa had made it a priority to learn why.

Bran had been the one to tell her. He had explained to her why she could not wed Gareth Umber: she would have died giving birth to his son. Sandor had heard of that prophecy from Jon, and, not surprisingly, hosted a similar fear when it came to her birthing _his_ child. It did not help how big she had gotten. Some days she wondered how she _would_ survive pushing the babe out. But much like him, she did not voice her concerns. If she would die in the birthing bed, surely Bran would tell her.

Wouldn't he?

Sansa wondered, then she prayed.

Outside, the yard was growing lively. If Sansa could muster up the strength, she'd walk over to the window and open the shutters.

 _The East Wall should be nearly finished, by now._ Or so she hoped.

Despite victory against the Others and Jon’s victory in taking the Iron Throne out of the clutches of Cersei Lannister, the ambience in Winterfell was not very pleasant. Many lives had been lost that night the white walkers invaded Winterfell's walls, many fathers and brothers and sons had been burned in the days following. And those who did not die likely sustained an injury. Gendry had been one of those. Sandor had found him buried underneath a pile of rubble with his left shoulder cut so deep he was still recovering after nearly half a year later. No, the healing would take time. Physically, mentally, spiritually, everyone would need to heal. And so, too, did the castle.

As the walls and keeps were being rebuilt, gossip spread like an angry swarm of wasps. 

The stories varied depending on the source, and there were no shortage of downright lies. When Sansa had asked Jon about what had happened that night, he had only stared blankly at her and said, “Daenerys wanted us to live."

Sansa had heard the whispers claiming Jon had driven his sword through Daenerys himself, not the Night's King, and when he pulled it out, it was alive with flame, much like the magical sword Lightbringer. And not only did Jon murder his own wife, but he did so on her command.

 _How did Daenerys know the sacrifice would work?_ Sansa had wondered. _How did Jon?_ It was not until a week later did she learn Bran had spoken to Daenerys just before the battle.

_Daenerys knew that she would die. She knew that she must. And she died selflessly, for her people, like a good queen should._

_Could I have done the same?_

Sansa thought so. Sansa hoped so.

After reading Jon’s letter and concluding her morning ritual of reminiscing and pondering and making herself become ill-at-ease, Sansa had fallen back asleep to the ambient sound of ice melting from the roof. A knock on her door had awoken her that time. At some point, she had rolled over onto her back while she slept, with a pressure so deep between her thighs it felt as if something was sitting in her lap. Sansa looked down but could see nothing over the roundness of her bare belly. The dripping noises outside had come to an end. Another hour or so must have passed and the ice on the roof fully melted. 

_A warmer day. Barely winter. Nearly spring._

“Your Grace,” Cregan Umber called through the oak-and-iron door. “May I come in?”

Sansa rubbed her heavy eyes, suddenly not knowing what time it was. She assumed her Hand had left with Sandor and the others to hunt that morning, therefore his presence was a bit confounding. Then again, everything confused her as of late, because pregnancy.

“Yes, you may,” she answered. It took her the entire time of him entering and pulling up a chair beside her to sit up on the bed. She was breathless from the effort. “You did not wish to hunt today?” 

There were dark circles underneath his grey eyes. “Not today, Your Grace. I want to oversee the construction of the First Keep. With Sandor gone, half the men out there are dawdling about.”

“Let them,” she said, wincing as the babe kicked and jabbed, much lower now. “It sounds like it is a lovely day.”

Cregan stood up to open the shutters, inviting the sun to fill the room. The sky was the brightest of blues, and the clouds were the softest of greys. “Look for yourself, Your Grace. We can go to the godswood, if you’d like. Maester Rhodry says that-”

“-walking will lessen the pain,” Sansa all but groaned. “I remember.” _He’s also not the one carrying a small giant in his belly._ While watching him stare pensively out the window, she said, “Is everything alright?”

He returned to the chair and rubbed the back of his neck. “Lord Glover wants me to wed his daughter.”

“Oh, no.”

“As does Lord Wylis.”

“Wylla?”

He nodded. “Now that she’s no longer betrothed to a Frey, he wants me to visit White Harbor.”

That was not surprising. Every northern lord would want their daughter married to the Hand of the Queen in the North. Besides, Cregan was the last Umber, a respected family if one ignores brigands and monsters like Gareth Umber. She sympathized with Cregan, but it was not sympathy he needed. Westeros needed to change. Sansa wouldn't just pray that it did, she'd do everything in her power to see that it did.

Before she could continue to lend him an ear, her lower back felt as if it were caving in. Sansa audibly whimpered and clutched the fur blanket with both hands. _Perhaps I should go for a walk,_ she thought, _anything to_ _alleviate this._

Sansa held out her hand and said, “Please, my lord. I would enjoy a visit to the godswood. Perhaps we can stop by the First Keep to see how my men are choosing to dawdle around.”

Cregan stood from the chair, chuckling. "If they see you coming their way, they'll have the Keep completed by noon."

As he helped her onto her feet, the furs fell away and tumbled to the floor. Sansa closed her eyes and groaned, the sudden weight shift sending a thousand knives through her groin. When the pain subsided, she opened her eyes and found Cregan Umber staring at the floor with his mouth agape. 

She felt it then, a warm trickle down her leg, as if she had become incontinent. Sansa glanced down to inspect, but her belly got in the way of that, too.

“Queen Sansa,” her Hand stammered, then helped her down onto the edge of the bed. His tired eyes were as wide as saucers. “Wait here," he said, as if she had any other choice. "I’ll return at once with Maester Rhodry.”

In a blur, Cregan darted out of the bedchamber, leaving Sansa to sit there alone on the edge of the bed while a warm puddle collected underneath her on the sheets.

 _No,_ she thought, clutching her belly. It was as firm as stone. _It's too early._

Early or not, the pain persisted. “Ah!” The cramping sensation was a thousand times worse than that she experienced during her moon blood. It was a pain that demanded to be felt all over, an agony that deepened with every passing second. Her bump grew tighter and tighter, until finally it ebbed.

Sansa exhaled then, not realizing she had been holding her breath that entire time. Her hands were shaking, her breath was quivering; Sansa was pining for her husband. 

She could no longer deny it.

_Today is the day I give birth._

It felt like an hour had gone by before Cregan was sprinting back inside the bedchamber. She was sitting right where he had left her, still holding onto her taut belly and crying. 

"Maester Rhodry is coming," he told her, helping her onto her back. The feather bed might as well have been made out of spikes for all the comfort it provided.

“Sandor won’t make it in time," she sobbed. 

“He might. I sent a raven.”

That confused her. “A _raven_? To the _Wolfswood_?”

“Bran will find him, Your Grace.”

 _Of course...Bran._ How did she not think of that? _The pain. The pain will not allow me to think._

And the pain only became worse. Much worse. Each time she thought nothing could possibly hurt more, the next wave of pain left her screaming louder than before. The minutes started to fade into one another, and then the hours, each spent breathing her way through the waves of agonizing pain. She took it one at a time, as the maester suggested. It was all she could do. Her pain had become the world. A wave, a recession, another wave, another recession, again and again, all the while the maester was prodding around inside her with cold steel tools.

The door must have opened and closed half a hundred times. She no longer bothered to see who it was coming and going to assist Maester Rhodry - none that came and went were Sandor. The only thing keeping her from losing her mind was Cregan. The only times he left her side was when he'd occasionally run to the window and peer out into the bright yard to see if the hunting party had returned. 

They still had not.

Some more time passed and then, as Maester Rhodry examined her with two of his fingers, he said the words she had been dreading. "Your Grace, the babe will be here within the hour."

He spoke the words with his thin lips turned up in a smile, but all Sansa could think was, _Sandor...I need Sandor._

She couldn't speak. Her spine was going to split in half, she was certain. The pressure was worse than the burning, until that burning progressed into a searing sensation right _there._ It felt like being branded, like hot iron being pressed flush against her sex. Her throat was raw from crying and screaming, and then made worse when she leaned over the edge of the bed and retched up stomach bile. She had memorized the pattern of weirwood leaves embroidered on the canopy above her. She must have been staring at it for several hours now, either at it or the back of her eyelids. 

And then it came, the sudden urge to push.

It was the exact same sensation she felt before desperately needing to visit the privy. It was awful.

While watching Maester Rhodry rinse his hands in a basin of water as he prepared for the imminent delivery, she heard the most beautiful words to ever bless her ears come from the yard.

“Get the fuck out of my way!”

A chill washed over her.

_He’s home._

Sandor's voice was as potent as milk of the poppy just then, providing her a measure of relief for the first time in some unknown amount of hours.

Cregan lumbered towards the door. One merciless contraction later, the man kneeling beside her was not her Hand, but the father of the child she was minutes away from birthing. 

Sandor was sweating as profusely as her, his hair an unkempt mess. No man had ever looked so handsome. While he took a moment to catch his breath, Sandor grabbed her hand and wiped away the stray hairs that stuck to her face.

“You naughty little bird," he rasped. "I knew you'd try to do this without me."

He meant to be amusing, she knew, but Sansa could not help but give him a pained scowl as she felt the opening of her canal on the verge of tearing open.

As visibly tense as he was, he laughed. “You don’t look happy to see me, girl.”

“It. _Hurts_.”

"Next time I'll spill in your mouth, then."

Someone gave an obnoxious groan. When Sansa looked over to her left, Arya was standing there, her hair and face a sweaty mess from their hasty return.

 _The old gods listened to my prayers._ Overwhelmed with gratitude, Sansa broke into tears.

Sandor kissed her quivering lips half a dozen times. “We’re going to be parents, you and I."

“I’m scared,” she found herself saying, in between sobs.

"Why? You're going to be the best mother ever," Arya added. Even _she_ looked distressed, but Sansa assumed that was because she was staring long and hard at the sight between her legs.

Another wave of pain came, dragging her back to hell. Her eyes closed tightly, her jaw clenched shut. Mindlessly, she dug her fingernails into Sandor's hand, eliciting a pained grunt.

“Bloody hell, you are a wolf," he growled.

Sansa wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. All she could do was anticipate the sound of her spine breaking in half. 

Sandor and Maester Rhodry were speaking to one another, but Sansa was not able to make out what they were saying over her screaming. When that contraction ended, her husband said, abruptly, “A game. Bugger the coat of arms. House words. I’ll go first. Family, Duty, Honor.”

She was so grateful she married him. So grateful. Sansa managed the smallest smile and said, “My..mother's house. Tully.”

“You clever little bird." There were tears in his eyes. _Fear._ "Your turn, girl."

Sansa tried to think, but it was no good. The pain returned as soon as it left.

“I can’t remember any,” she wept. “Oh gods, I can’t do this.”

He kissed her with the same burning intensity as the one below. “You can, little bird. You’re stronger than anyone I've ever met.”

Sansa looked down between her legs, certain there were flames beating against her entrance. No fire, only the maester prodding inside her some more.

She tossed her head back against the pillow. “Fuck!”

Sandor barked a laugh, but it did not sound the same. Not in the presence of fear. “Watch your mouth, little bird.”

She felt the strongest urge to push yet and looked at Maester Rhodry. 

He nodded, as if reading her mind. “Once the next pain comes, you will take in a deep breath and push as hard as you can, Your Grace.”

“Fuck,” Sandor muttered. 

It did not take long for that next hellish sensation to come. As she began to scream, Maester Rhodry calmly yet firmly instructed her to push, push, push.

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut and lifted her upper back with the assistance of Sandor’s hand. She did as she was told, pushing, pushing, pushing, and entered yet another uncharted territory in the vast expanse that was physical pain.

Maester Rhodry was counting, Sandor was kissing her hand as her nails broke his skin, and Arya was encouraging her to push, push, push.

Sansa tried, tried, tried, but was on the brink of passing out, giving up on the count of seven. She fell back against Sandor’s hand with her eyes still closed, feeling more dead than alive.

“Seven hells!” Arya gasped. “That looks like it fucking hurts!”

“Shut your bloody mouth before I throw you out of here!” Sandor shouted.

“Your Grace, you need to push longer next time," Maester Rhodry informed her. 

Sansa wanted to smack all three of them. But more than that, she wanted the pain to end.

Another wave. She drew in a longer breath that time but exerted it all within the first second of pushing. It did not matter. Sansa persisted. Sansa screamed. Sansa pushed, pushed, pushed... 

“Oh gods!” she cursed, upon the sensation of a blade as sharp as Valyrian steel scraping her entrance. 

“The babe will be here on the next push,” Maester Rhodry informed her, softly. 

Sweet words, soothing words.

She opened her eyes. Her chest was beaded with sweat. Sansa met Sandor's anxious gaze just before feeling herself approach another apex of pain.

Sansa pushed and pushed and pushed, and then the worst of the pain was over.

A slippery wet sensation replaced the searing one, followed by the sound of her sister gasping. It was all the confirmation she needed to know that it was over.

Sansa dropped back as she experienced the rush, savoring the sweet taste of relief for the first time in half a day. Her head sank onto the pillow once Sandor removed his arm. He said nothing, only kissed her still, numb lips in a rapid manner.

“Oh gods!" Arya exclaimed. "It’s a boy! Bran was right, Sansa! It’s a boy!”

 _A boy._ With her next shallow breath, a babe’s crying filled the room. The most powerful instinct took over then, the sound of her son's first cries awaking her back to life.

Sansa opened her eyes.

"A prince," Maester Rhodry confirmed, beaming with joy, then placed the newborn on her breast. 

He was so little, so red, so beautiful. On his head was a wisp of hair, auburn like hers. Sansa ran her fingers through it and could not comprehend its soft texture. It was unlike anything. The babe's crying ended the moment he was placed on her skin - he knew her, his mother. Sansa met Sandor's bewildered gaze and cried tears of joy, at a loss for words.

 _Not a girl. A boy. Our son._

She’d have a million of his children. All the suffering had been worth it, every minute of it. Every sharp, shooting, burning pain. Every sleepless night. Every...

“Ah!” Sansa squealed.

Sandor’s face immediately became pale. “What is it?” He looked over at the maester. "What are you doing to her?!"

The taste of victory was washed out from her mouth. She wanted to scream, but could not get the words to leave the bottom of her throat. 

Maester Rhodry wiped the sweat off his wrinkled brow with a cloth. The sleeves of his robe were stained with blood. “It appears the little prince will have a sibling, Your Grace.”

Sansa did not understand, despite feeling the sudden need to push again. Her hand was frozen on her son's little bottom, with Sandor's hand just on top.

There was no time to ask questions, no time to speak to her sister or her husband. The sensation to push grew and grew, and then she managed to say, “Sandor, take him.”

He looked at her incredulously for a few passing seconds, before picking the babe off her breast and holding him against his own. 

The process started again. If it were just as long and painful as the first, Sansa did not know how she would survive. Despite the surprise, she somehow found the last of her energy and filled her lungs with air, determined to birth the second babe. 

The pressure and searing pain were present, but much lesser than before. The stretching was familiar, the burning an old, hated acquaintance. Arya helped lift her upper back that time, assisting her as she pushed and pushed and pushed once again.

 _Push!_ she encouraged herself. The maester counted. "One, two, three, four, five," then Sansa gave up. _Gods, I can't do it!_ No longer was the pain the hardest part, it was the exhaustion. Her limbs felt numb, her breathing was all but absent, and black spots filled her vision. 

Then came hope. Under his breath, Sandor was muttering a prayer. She needn't look at him to hear. He uttered Beric's name and Thoros', then the Lord of Light and the old gods and the new. Sansa even heard him mention something about her father and mother and Robb. He was praying to anyone who might hear.

He was praying for her, like she always did for him. Truly praying.

It gave her strength when she needed it the most. A contraction, a long, steady push, and then...relief, again, even better than before.

The second babe exiting her canal was a sensation as sweet as honey, as deep as the ocean, as blinding as the sun.

It was unforgettable. It was worth it. 

That time, as Arya knelt down beside her and sniffled, Sandor made the observation first.

“A girl,” he said in one heavy breath. “A boy and a girl.” 

Even the maester was shedding a tear, as he wiped off the babe before setting her down atop her breast. A wisp of hair tickled Sansa's cheek, the babe's soft strands the same color as her father's. Sandor placed their son just beside their daughter, allowing the newborns to nuzzle up against each other. 

Speechless, Sansa placed a hand on either tiny back, then brushed her fingertips over skin as soft as the petal of a winter rose. 

_Twins._

A son and a daughter.

A boy, auburn of hair. A girl, dark of hair.

The prince and princess of the North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you x a million for the kudos, comments, subscriptions, bookmarks, etc.  
> One of my favorite things about writing is hearing from those who read my stories. I can't begin to express my gratitude for the love you've all shown me.


	27. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we made it! 
> 
> This story started out in Sandor's POV, so it only seemed natural for me to end it with him, too. There's a little bit of everything in this chapter - a dash of humor, an angsty teenager, some SanSan smut, a sprinkle of fluff. I hope you'll enjoy every part of it!

_**SANDOR** _

The practice yard was filled to the brim. Northerners always loved a good duel at first light.

On one hand, Sandor had just about every advantage there was - reach, height, weight - and he had them by a longshot. But on the other hand, his opponent was lithe and far younger, not to mention the fact that wolf blood ran through their veins. 

As did his own. 

Half dog, half wolf, that one. 

The sword in Sandor’s right hand felt as light as a quill, each parry as skilled as it was delicate. Not one person in the crowd was cheering for him, not even his wife who was watching from the ramparts with three of their five children. 

Then again, neither was he. Sandor was cheering for his opponent, too.

Sometimes he would cut across too early or pull back too late just to give them a break, though he knew he shouldn’t. His opponent needed real practice, a real opportunity to show Winterfell what they had learned from Brienne of Tarth and Arya Stark and himself. 

His opponent was a natural, undeniably his flesh and blood. And with masters from Braavos and the Westerlands and Dorne, his child knew more ways to fight and kill a man than even he did.

Though Sandor prayed they’d never need to. He prayed to the olds gods and the Lord of Light, and occasionally the Seven, too. Sandor never did see another vision in the flames, but the scar on his torso was proof enough of R’hllor's existence.

Beric and Thoros would be proud. 

Every evening just before supper, he would visit the godswood and pray with his wife in the sight of the old gods. Sansa was his closest friend, his better half, and the mother of his five children. 

And soon to be six.

 _A castle full of children_. He did not lie.

Sandor was clad in a full suit of steel plate armor, though not by choice. His opponent wanted to wear their own suit of armor, newly forged by the blacksmith of Winterfell, Gendry, before he left to visit King's Landing with the she-wolf; it was only fair. At least it would have been fair had the heat of the summer not drained his aging body of energy within the first few minutes. 

After a sequence of clever maneuvers by his opponent, faking going left, then swinging right to aim the point of their blade right at his throat, the crowd cheered out for the royal child. Sandor dropped his feather light sword onto the ground, then said, fully exhausted, “I yield.”

His opponent dropped the dull blade from his throat and then removed their helm that was shaped in a sleek snarling wolf’s head. A long, dark braid spilled out onto a steel-clad shoulder.

“You’re slow, father," said his eldest daughter, looking up at him with her bright blue eyes.

Sandor removed his ancient Hound’s helm and tossed it into the dirt. “I’ve got thirty years on you, little one.”

“I won’t be a little one much longer,” Catelyn felt the need to remind him. “On the morrow, I’ll be six-and-ten.”

Sandor could have wept. “No matter how old you are, you’ll always be my little one.”

“And old enough to fight with a sharpened edge?” Cat held out the dull blade and collapsed her lips in a frown. “I’m sick of dueling with tourney swords.”

“You’ve been taught to fight so you can defend yourself, not so you can hack down men across Westeros for sport.”

“Across Westeros?” Her big blue eyes lit up, her smile growing as brilliant as the early morning sun. “Does that mean we’re finally riding south of the Neck, father?”

Sansa had been planning the trip to King’s Landing for five turns of the moon, a secret gift for their eldest children’s coming of age.

And Sandor managed to destroy the element of surprise in less than five seconds.

_Fuck._

As casually as possible, Sandor tilted his head and took a quick glance at the ramparts. If Sansa had witnessed Cat’s sudden glee, she would know for certain what he had done. 

That wouldn’t be good for him, but it could be for his cock. 

His marriage with Sansa was a happy one, much like those in the stories he’d read to his girls before bedtime, though that was not to say it was entirely void of the occasional quarrel. When that happened, Sandor could expect one of two things: Sansa would either distance herself from him before wanting to speak things out at a later time _or_ Sansa would fuck him so viciously that neither of them would remember what they had been arguing about in the first place. 

Then again, that’s when their quarrels were over trivial matters. 

His wife would _not_ find this trivial. 

Sansa had reminded him more times than he could count to keep the southern trip a secret. However, luckily for him, Sansa had already left the ramparts with their youngest daughter, Mariah, while his middle daughters, Jeyne and Dany, were giggling at big, old Lord Manderly as he slept in a chair just beside them. 

Many of the northern lords and ladies had come to visit in honor of the twins’ name day, though the real celebration would take place in King's Landing where a tourney would be held by the southern king himself, Jon Snow (six-and-ten years had gone by but Sandor never did learn to call him Aemon).

Lords and ladies and knights, all chatting to one another as they exited the yard and prepared themselves for the festivities later that day. Despite all the commotion, despite the blazing summer sun leaving him half blind, the absence of the Prince of Winterfell stuck out like a sore thumb.

_Where is that boy?_

Sandor returned his attention to his joyful daughter and said, “You didn’t hear me say that.”

Cat dropped her sword and gave him the biggest of hugs. Or at least she would have had their suits of armor not made it nearly impossible. 

“We’re going to King’s Landing, aren’t we? Oh, finally! I cannot think of a better name day gift!”

Sandor bent down and kissed the top of her head. “Don’t tell your mother or I’ll find myself short of one leg to ride south.”

Catelyn squealed. “I love you! When do we leave? Who will be coming with us?”

“Not for another fortnight. Your mother and sisters will be coming along, as will Cregan. And your brother, if he ever decides to bless us with his presence around here.” Sandor looked around the yard once more. “Where _is_ Cedric?”

“Probably where he always is these days - the Library Tower.”

Sandor took his daughter's arm and walked towards the armory. “Cregan told me your brother didn’t want to leave the Last Hearth during his last visit. Do you know why?”

Cat shrugged. “He didn’t tell me anything. Maybe the Last Hearth has a better library than we do.”

After removing their armor and returning their tourney swords, he and Catelyn made their way towards the Great Hall to break their fast. Somehow he already felt sore from the mock duel. His body never failed to remind him of his age, every pop and ache and cramp. If he had to dig graves on the Quiet Isle now, he’d die.

Inside the Great Hall, his two middle daughters were sitting beside one another on the dais while they broke their fast, their dark hair shining where a ray of sun came in through the large paned windows. Sandor sat down across from them, with Cat sitting to his right, then surveyed the expanse of the buzzing hall.

“Where’s your mother and Mariah?”

“Mother's retching in the privy,” Dany said casually. At three-and-ten, she had seen her mother pregnant twice before and knew the first couple months were always the worst. “And you know mother. I tried to help her, but she told me to eat my food before it got cold.”

“And still no sign of Cedric, I see,” he grumbled. 

“I saw him two days ago,” said his eight-year-old, Jeyne, as if that were normal. “He looked so sad. Like Uncle Jon.”

“It’s called brooding, my girl,” Sandor muttered. “And Cedric puts your uncle to shame. Your brother needs to learn how to run a castle, not lock himself away inside a tower all day.”

Cat picked up Dany’s cup and took a sip from it, laughing. “Oh father, Cedric probably knows how to run a castle better than even mother after reading every book there is. What does it matter if he’s a recluse?” 

“What does it _matter_? Because he’s the bloody heir to the North!”

And just like that, in the span of a heartbeat, the Great Hall became as silent as the crypts beneath Winterfell. 

_Fuck._

“Catie, father said a bad word,” Jeyne made sure to inform Catelyn. Out of his four daughters, Jeyne was the one with a peculiar passion for instigating trouble and then watching it unfold from the sidelines.

His eldest daughter set down the now empty cup firmly atop the table. “Why do you think Cedric is the way that he is, father? We’re twins - I know how he thinks. And all he thinks about is how he _is_ the heir. He doesn’t need to be reminded.” Catelyn brushed a stray hair out her face and sighed. “Sometimes I wonder if you know him at all.”

That was a punch to the face with a giant iron fist. “Excuse me, young lady? I’ve raised Cedric the same way I’ve raised you and your sisters.”

“Well, forgive me, then. You’re the one who is always preaching to us that it’s better to tell a hard truth than a convenient lie.” Catelyn arose from the bench with all the grace in the world. She might look like him, she might even fight like him, but she was as poise as her mother. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to visit my ‘bloody heir’ of a brother now.”

Sandor buried his face in his palms.

_A castle full of children, a castle full of problems. How did Walder Frey live to be so old?_

Several minutes later, after a serving girl brought him a plate full of bacon and sausage and poached eggs (not that he had an appetite any longer), Sansa and their youngest daughter entered the Great Hall hand in hand. While Mariah skipped and tugged on her mother's arm, Sansa was giving him a stern look as she approached the dais.

It was summer outside, but a chill froze him to his spot.

_Catelyn..._

Mariah ran up to him and crawled into his lap, her dark curly hair tickling his neck as she nuzzled against him. 

“How are you feeling, little bird?” he asked his wife, nervously.

Sansa never sat down, but instead stood behind him and combed her fingers through his hair, the tender sensation causing him to quiver. "I've felt...better."

_Fuck._

“Father said a naughty word,” Jeyne tattled with an insolent smile.

Sansa's hands fell away from his head. "Did he?"

His three-year old took a rasher of bacon from his plate and threw it at his face - an apt punishment.

“Does that mean we get an extra lemon cake after supper now?” asked Dany, hopefully. "That's what father said the last time he said a bad word in front of us."

_They're ganging up on me. All of them. My daughters._

He made the mistake of looking over his shoulder to find Sansa glaring down at him. “Yes, it does."

“Curse again, father!” Jeyne cheered, her Tully blue eyes twinkling. “Say all the curses! Let's eat all the lemon cakes!”

Sansa placed a pretty hand on his shoulder, then squeezed. “Dany, will you watch your sisters while I speak with your father?”

His cock stirred, but all he could think was, _Fuck._

Rather than exit through the main entrance of the Great Hall, his fuming wife led him to the rear exit and into the empty, dimly-lit gallery. From there, Sandor closed the door and turned around to find her standing with her arms folded. The shadows were not heavy enough to hide her disappointed expression.

“Why are you cursing in front of the girls?”

 _A trivial matter,_ he thought, growing stiffer inside his trousers. “We were talking about Cedric.”

She narrowed her eyes. Although Sansa loved all of their children the same, she was _fiercely_ defensive when it came to matters regarding their son.

“What about him?”

“How he keeps himself locked away all day. It's only worsened since he returned from the Last Hearth. He didn't even bother to show up for Cat’s duel.” Sandor shook his head. “Every last man, woman, and child in Winterfell came out this morning in celebration of her name day, except for her own twin!”

It was so trivial. He prepared to pull out his cock at the sight of Sansa pursing her lips, but, to his surprise, she only stood there.

No, it wasn't trivial at all, he realized. She had more to say.

“Has it ever occurred to you that our son has a lot on his mind?”

“Seven hells, not this again,” he sighed, resting his hands on his hips. “He’ll be King in the North _some_ day, not on the morrow. We do everything to ensure our children are happy, yet he broods about this castle worse than Jon!”

“Because it’s not just that, Sandor! You seem to forget that he’s our only son!” Once Sansa’s voice finished echoing inside the stone gallery, she inhaled deeply, then took his hands into her own. “And he's the only son of the man once known as the Hound.”

 _To some, I still am,_ he thought. _To some, that's all I'll ever be._

“What difference does that make?” Sandor asked.

“The northmen expect him to behave a certain way. Cedric worries that he's not strong or brave enough to be a king. But more than that, he worries that he's not like you."

“Cedric doesn't think I want him to be like me, does he? And I sure as bloody hell don’t want him aspiring to be like the Hound.”

Sansa cupped his cheek with her hand. “Tell him that, not me.”

The argument didn't end the way he hoped, but it didn't end badly either. Sandor gave her a kiss on the lips and then turned to exit the gallery to find his son.

Just as he made to grab the handle of the door, Sansa said, “We still need to discuss the second matter.”

“The second matter?” he said, confused, until he remembered what he foolishly revealed in the yard.

_Fuck._

When he glanced over his shoulder, he found his wife leaning seductively against the wall. 

“Did you spoil the surprise?” she asked, looking far too pleased with herself.

_Why is she happy? Why?_

She was terrifying. It made him want to fuck her bloody.

Sandor knew he couldn’t lie to her, nor would he.

He turned all the way around to face her. “Cat told you?”

His wife’s cheeky smile fell at once. “No." She frowned. "Wait...did you tell her? Truly?”

Feeling trapped, Sandor looked all around, as if the walls were closing in. “What’s happening?”

“I was only teasing you. I wanted to play a game,” she said, her eyes slowly narrowing into two little slits. His blood rushed south. “You spoiled it?!”

After waiting for the shout to finish reverberating down the stone passage, he said, “...Cedric will be surprised..." _Unless Cat tells him, which she will._

But he didn't say that, not when his wife knew how to throw a dagger.

Sansa inhaled sharply but then emptied her lungs just as quick. Rather than speak, she moved her hands to the bodice of her dress.

His jaw fell to the floor. "Here? What about the girls?"

His wife ignored him and continued to loosen the laces of her gown before pulling out her breasts, her _swollen_ breasts, made even more alluring by her darker pink nipples.

_More maternal than the Mother herself._

Although Sandor would miss fucking her on her moon blood each month, Sansa being with child did something to him. It sparked a hunger that could only be temporarily sated by tasting the sweetness exuding from her nipples as he buried his cock inside her. Even her cunt would be swollen. And warm. And wet.

He took two strides forward and picked her up in his arms.

"Oh!" she gasped.

It was a risky place to fuck, but they’d done it in riskier places. With five kids, two of whom still shared their bed, one must needs learn to improvise.

Sandor carried her over to the darkest corner of the gallery, heart racing, blood pumping, eyes fixated on her teats, then pressed her back against the stone. She wrapped her legs around his waist, so eagerly.

“Someday you’ll learn that fucking me isn’t a punishment, little bird," he rasped.

Sansa initiated a kiss that was all tongue and tasted of mint, while trailing her hands down the front of his chest. “Someday you’ll learn it was never meant to be.”

“No?” Without setting her down onto her feet, Sandor reached in with one hand and pulled out his cock, stroking it as it became rigid with blood. “Then why do you lift your skirts for me when I make you angry?” 

Sandor’s hand fell to that haven between her legs and discovered that she was not wearing small clothes. He growled, his fingers sliding up and down her smooth, wet slit. A high-pitched moan escaped her, its echo making it sound as if there were ten of her being fucked by his hand.

Sansa grabbed a handful of his hair in each hand, then whispered, “Because even when I hate you, I love you."

They kissed like feral beasts in the corner of the gallery, messy and breathy, a wicked sight for the shadows, both entirely unable to control themselves. 

And control himself, he would not. 

Sandor removed his hand and licked his wife's juices off his fingers before guiding the head of his cock to her sopping wet opening. He thought about teasing her, making her beg for it, making her cry for him to fill her, but the heat escaping her entrance stole what little remained of his patience. He united their bodies with a push of his hips and then their echoes of pleasure danced along the stone together.

His thrusts came quick and hard, as if she had been the one deserving of a punishment. He needed her, desperately. He wanted her as badly then as he had the first time he had her all those years ago. No matter how much they changed over the years, the intimacy did not. The opportunities came less frequently now that they were parents of five, but when the opportunities did arise, each took him back to when they were young again. Young and fucking in the throes of the turmoil that consumed Westeros nigh on two decades ago. 

When her bronze and iron crown fell off and clanked noisily against the ground, Sansa begged him to fuck her harder. He found himself becoming extremely irate with the lack of light inside the windowless passageway. He wanted to see the desperation in her eyes, the desperation for _him_. Sandor never failed to wonder, _How? Why me?,_ after all that time. Sixteen years later and it still didn't make a lick of sense. None at all.

It never would.

At the very least, he could see two blurs the color of ivory as her breasts bounced upon every beating. He suckled on one while fondling the other, never slowing his pace.

She loved that. Her nipples were sensitive, he knew.

When Sansa was pregnant, playing with her nipples was as efficient in getting her to climax as was flicking his tongue over her little pink bud. As he licked and groped above while pumping savagely below, Sansa tossed her head back against the wall. Her curses were sweet to the ear, nothing short of harmonious, and grew louder and louder until they were no more than wordless moans that tumbled down the corridor. Once he felt the resistance build, her cunt pushing him out one moment and then refusing to let go the next, Sandor removed his mouth from her breast with a loud popping sound and pressed his lips to hers.

That was his favorite way to lose himself - kissing her, tasting her, feeling each of her breaths along the inside of his throat. He had timed it perfectly, filling her with his seed as she rocked her hips and rode out her peak. Tighter and tighter she squeezed. Warmer and wetter she became. And all the while, that moment of clarity following each climax dawned on him once again.

When he kissed her, sweating worse than he had out in the practice yard an hour ago, she bit his lip until it bled.

 _Innocent and pure,_ he thought. _And mine, forever._

* * *

Perhaps he was becoming a northman after all. Sandor would sooner suffer the winds of winter before struggling with the heat of another summer. 

As he ascended the stonework staircase outside the Library Tower underneath the late morning sun, he gathered his thoughts. His knees made an awful grating noise each time he took a step, bone grinding against bone. His arms were sore from the practice duel, despite his blunt sword weighing less than Mariah, and his legs were already becoming stiff after fucking his wife while standing up.

Sandor looked (and felt) every day of his almost fifty years. 

The library was larger than he remembered it; Sandor scarcely ever came by. He found his son sitting at a table furthest away from the door beside a large diamond-paned window with a quill in his hand. He was writing quickly, brooding at the parchment as he did it, with a stack of books at his feet.

Cedric Stark, his firstborn, the prince of Winterfell, and someday, the King in the North.

His son was larger than Sandor was at six-and-ten, six feet now and heavily muscled, despite his tendency to skip practice in the training yard. His hair was the same auburn shade as Sansa’s, bright copper hues coming to life each time the sunlight fell in his hair; he was the only one of their children who took Sansa's hair color, and the only one who took his grey eyes. Much like Cregan Umber, Cedric looked older than he was, not only due to his size, but even in his face, his strong jaw, his heavy brow.

Almost a giant. 

Once, just once, someone had made a sly comment on Cedric’s parentage. Cregan had been the one to overhear it when the twins were no older than two years old. When word of it reached Sandor, he wondered if the Mad King, Aerys Targaryen, had truly been so wrong to tear out Ser Ilyn’s tongue after uttering a shrewd comment.

According to Cregan, when a group of guardsmen were talking about how the prince and princess, though twins, looked nothing alike, one man had said, “That’s because the girl is the dog’s, and the boy is Gareth’s.”

It had taken Cregan plus three of his men to prevent him from beating the man to a bloody pulp. Rather than cut out his tongue or execute him like other monarchs were wont to do, Sansa had sent him to serve House Cerwyn instead.

But if Sandor ever saw him again, he'd tear out his tongue, Elder Brother and the gods, be damned.

While many likely could not see the resemblance, Sandor could. He could see the Clegane in his son. Too much of it. And sometimes, every now and then, he could even see a bit of Gregor. 

Sandor cleared his throat as he approached. “Cedric.”

“Father," he responded, never looking away from the letter. He dipped the quill into the ink, let it drip the once into the jar, then placed it onto the parchment to scribble down more words. 

“Did Cat speak with you?” 

“She did,” Cedric said, terse enough to imply that Catelyn had informed him about the ‘bloody heir’ incident. 

Sandor sat in the chair across from him. Not once did his son look up. “What are you doing?”

“Writing.”

“I’m not that blind, boy,” Sandor scoffed. “Who’s the letter for?” When his son’s hand instantly became still, he added, “And don’t sit there and make something up. Even your sister knows better than to lie to me.”

Cedric sighed, set the quill into the ink pot, then slid the parchment forward. 

Sandor leaned forward and squinted at the name. Perhaps he _was_ that blind. “Lynesse?”

“Lynara.”

He slid back the letter. “Name isn’t ringing any bells.”

Cedric drew in a long breath, still avoiding his gaze. “Lynara...Umber.”

“ _Umber_?” 

“Cregan’s niece. When he renounced his lordship of the Last Hearth, his sister’s husband took the Umber name, like you took the Stark's. So that makes their daughter Lynara Umber.”

The explanation had been unnecessary, but Sandor was too taken aback to stop his son from uttering the words. 

Not only was Cregan Umber practically his brother, but he’d been Hand to the Queen going on seventeen years. Sandor knew all about Cregan renouncing his lordship. He’d done that three years ago to end the incessant matchmaking by every northern lord who had a daughter. Now that he held no lands, the requests for betrothal came to halt, allowing Cregan to focus on his duties as Hand to the Queen while his sister became Lady of the Last Hearth.

“Lynara Umber,” Sandor repeated. 

No matter his close relationship with Cregan, hearing the name never failed to stir up dark, suppressed memories of that _one_ Umber. He thought about _that_ Umber every day, every time he saw the scar on his torso from where the giant lord’s steel had sliced him half. There were times he’d dream about him - dueling him, killing him, slicing off his head. Sandor would wake up drenched in sweat each time. 

But Gareth Umber was dead. He had sliced open his skull and watched him turn into ash. Even so, some monsters continue to haunt, even after they’re dead.

“I met her when I visited the Last Hearth,” Cedric said, saving him from his bleak thoughts. For the first time since he sat down, his son looked him in the eye. “I miss her.”

 _Another Umber?_ _Is this family going to infiltrate my life forever? Cregan may be different, but the others, Gareth’s own flesh and blood…_

_No._

“How old is this Umber girl?” Sandor asked.

His son shifted in his seat. “The same age as me. Well, two months younger.”

“Not yet a woman, then,” he noted.

Cedric’s head drooped forward, but that did not prevent Sandor from seeing his son’s fair skin blushing as conspicuously as his mother’s. 

_No._

“Well,” Cedric began, rapidly tapping his fingers on top of the table, as he brooded at the parchment. “Lynara and I...we..."

“Bloody hell.” Sandor leaned back in his chair and dragged his hands down his face. “Did I not raise you to respect women?”

“You did,” Cedric stammered, “but-”

“A _lady_ , a _highborn lady_ of five-and-ten?” 

Sandor knew that he was being enormously hypocritical, recalling how he had first had Sansa inside that cave in the Neck when she was a highborn lady of six-and-ten. And that had not been the first time he wanted her, nor the hundredth. Not even the thousandth.

But, as a father, he wanted better for his son, and he expected better of him, hypocrisy be damned.

He leaned forward so that his face was only inches away from his son’s. “What did I tell you when you turned three-and-ten, boy?” His proximity and harsh tone forced Cedric to lift his eyes. “When you have those urges, you go to the brothel in Winter Town. You don’t start collecting the maidenheads of every highborn lady in the North.”

Cedric was as still as ice. “Well, Lynara was...I was...”

While his son attempted and failed to explain, Sandor felt as if he were losing his mind. 

_Not my son,_ he thought, while thinking of Gregor and Gareth and all the rest. It had been his biggest fear having a son, a fear Sandor didn't know he had until he became a father. Boys could be destructive and mean and abusive, and some of those boys would never grow out of it. It was much like his fear of a man as cruel as Gregor or Gareth coming after one of his own daughters. Sandor had never told Cat the reason why he’d trained her with a sword, but _that_ had been the reason why, not simply because she wanted to be like her Aunt Arya. 

In due time, all of his daughters would be taught defensive skills, if not with a sword, then with a dagger. And his son...his son...

_Not my son._

“I’ll not allow you to be like _them_ ,” Sandor found himself saying with a clenched jaw. “I’ve known too many knights and lords and princes and kings who took what they wanted because they could. Your mother and I raised you better than that. I taught you to respect women, didn’t I?”

Rather than stay still, Cedric nodded quickly. “Y-you did. I do, father. I swear it.”

“ _Every_ woman? I’m not just talking about highborn women, boy. The serving girls? The whores?”

His son was by far the most reserved of his children. Some even said he had the exact same temperament as Eddard Stark. But even quiet wolves know when to bark, even shy dogs know when it was time to defend. 

“I’ve never disrespected a serving girl and I’ve never been to a brothel!” Cedric snapped. “I’ve only been with Lynara!”

Most men would have hit their son for raising his voice in such a manner, but not him. On the contrary, Sandor felt deeply proud in that moment, even relishing in the sight of his firstborn acting as headstrong as his twin sister. As irritating as it could be, Sandor wanted his children to have a strong will, to never be afraid to stand up for themselves when necessary. That was not a quality that demanded a punishment. 

Sandor slowly sat back in his chair, taking a moment to collect himself. “Does Cregan know you tumbled his niece?”

Cedric nodded once. “He does.”

The irony of his son getting into a girl’s small clothes for the first time while under the supervision of Cregan was almost enough to make him laugh aloud, but the fact it was with an Umber kept him from doing so. “So, you told Cregan. Why didn’t you tell me or your mother?”

“I was going to tell mother, but when I learned that she is with child, I didn’t want to worry her.”

That was the truth, Sandor could tell. “Very well, but that doesn’t explain why you decided not to tell me.”

Cedric started to tap his fingers on the table again. “Well...you’re always busy with the girls...and with Cregan...I don’t know. I didn’t think you’d care.”

The words sent a dagger through his heart. “You’re my son.”

“Unfortunately.”

The dagger twisted. “What does that mean?”

“It means that I hope mother’s next child is a boy.”

“Why?”

Cedric’s fingers stilled. “So you can have a son you’re proud of. A son like Cat. A son like Cregan.” He glanced out the window, then took in a deep, shaky breath. “A son like you.”

The dagger that had been sent and twisted through his heart now felt as if it had been lit aflame by dragonfire. The blue dragonfire. Or laced with poison. A terrible poison.

Sandor could not say how sixteen years had gone by without ever having had this discussion with his son. How did it never occur to him to express to Cedric what he meant to him? When his son was younger, Sandor had been more affectionate. Each morning, the two of them would go for a walk throughout the castle while Sansa washed and braided Cat’s hair. Sandor had even been the one to teach him how to ride a horse and fight with a sword. Why did that change as he became older? Why was it easier for Sandor to express his love to his daughters? He was closest with Catelyn, that was true, but he loved his children all the same, just like Sansa.

As Sandor looked at the profile of the young man before him, a man who looked to be aged twenty rather than sixteen, he no longer focused on the likeness of himself or Gregor, the likeness that unconsciously triggered him, but instead saw him as he had that day he had been born. Small and innocent and pure. Like Sansa. Like his girls. So was his son. 

He could give Sansa a castle full of children, but if he failed one of them, what sort of father would he be?

No different than his own.

Sandor sat up taller, his muscles aching, and said, “Look at me, boy.”

Cedric did, slowly and gradually, his grey eyes glazed with tears as they met his own. 

There was a hard knot constricting his throat, one which was impossible to swallow and made it difficult to breathe, but Sandor would sooner be dead than not say what he wanted to let out.

It would have been a great time for the former bastard of Winterfell to have been there. He always had a poetic way with words.

Sandor forced a cough to clear his throat, then began. “I never told you or your sister this, but when your mother was with child for the first time, I saw Cat in the flames just after Beric Dondarrion brought me back after the duel with Gareth Umber. I only saw her that one time. I saw your mother, too, and myself, but not you.

"Now, your Uncle Brandon saw you, but not Cat. I didn’t know what to think. You know your uncle - when has he ever been wrong? But I knew what I saw, so the entire time your mother was pregnant, I spoke of one child - Catelyn. I wanted that little girl I saw in the flames. I wanted to be her father.

“But then you came. A boy. _My_ boy.” Sandor’s voice broke. “Not a little girl. And do you know what? It was the happiest moment of my life. Don’t shake your head at me, it was. I love your mother and your sisters with all that I have, I'll kill for them, I'll die for them, but my love for you as my son, my firstborn, is different. It’s special. So no, I don’t want a son like Cregan or Cat or me. I want a son like you.”

Cedric hastily wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hands. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“Torrhen says men shouldn’t cry. A prince especially.”

Sandor snorted, though he was on the brink of crying too. “Torrhen is Tormund Giantsbane’s bastard. He wouldn't be here had his father not squirted his seed inside one of your mother’s former chambermaids.” Out of the few wildlings left in Winterfell, Torrhen was his least favorite. But he was a decent builder and worth keeping around. “Bugger what he says.”

Cedric laughed, then sniffled. “Thank you, father.”

While his son took a moment to collect himself, Sandor's eyes returned to the parchment. 

_Another Umber._

Trusting his son’s judgment, he said, “This Umber girl, tell me about her.”

He had not seen his son so animated since he was a toddler. When Cedric smiled, he looked like Sansa. “Lynara is brilliant, truly, and kind and courteous. Her maester told me she has been good with numbers since she was three. Well, I’ve never been fond of working with numbers. I’ve always preferred reading over counting, but she was able to teach me a few things.”

Sandor leaned back in the chair and folded his arms. “So you decided to return the favor with your cock?”

That made him blush again. “Father, it just...happened.”

He could no longer suppress his chuckle. “I was five-and-ten once, son. I know.”

His son’s face became solemn, as still as one of the statues in Winterfell’s crypt. “I want to marry her.”

“Because you took her maidenhead?”

“Because I love her.”

Sandor looked out the window. An entire world existed beyond the glass, and his son had yet to see anything besides the North. “You’re six-and-ten, boy.”

“Was mother not six-and-ten when she married you?” Cedric challenged.

There was nothing he could say.

Sandor looked away from the window and then at his son, and then at the tallow candle that was lit on the table behind him. Not one window was open inside the Library Tower, but the fire was twisting, its flame sentient and alive.

 _'...you’re to wed an Umber',_ Sandor remembered the words he uttered in the cave.

 _You were right, Beric and Thoros._ _A Stark will be wedding an Umber after all._

He returned his gaze to Cedric. “Are you finished with your letter?”

“Almost, why?”

Sandor knew he should consult with Sansa beforehand, but this was trivial. And trivial fights, well, they were his favorite. 

So he spoke. “Tell her I’m sending you and Cregan to the Last Hearth. From there, the three of you will return to Winterfell before we leave. If this girl is to be your queen someday, best that she know a world outside of the Last Hearth.”

Cedric was ecstatic, smiling openly and freely, until he suddenly knitted his brow. “Did you say _leave_? Where are we going?”

He expected Catelyn to have told her brother about the spoiled surprise; there was no point in keeping it a secret now. Sansa knew and he already paid the price inside the gallery. His lips turned up in a smile at the memory, at all of them. But his favorite memory, the one that changed his life, made him beam from ear to ear.

That day in the Riverlands, a tranquil snow drifting all around… 

_‘There she is, Clegane - Sansa Stark.’_

“Your name day gift.” Sandor picked up the quill, dipped it in the ink, then handed it to the future King in the North. “We’re southbound, son.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THREE MONTHS LATER...IT'S FINALLY FINISHED.
> 
> First, let me give credit to some amazing artists who inspired me. 
> 
> [This](https://www.deviantart.com/bubug/art/the-gravedigger-397175796) drawing sparked the idea of this story. Without it, Northbound probably wouldn't have happened. 
> 
> [This](https://emilywalus.tumblr.com/post/7545444827/game-of-thrones-fanart-pencildigital) is how I picture Sandor Clegane when I write my fics.
> 
> [This](https://www.deviantart.com/denkata5698/art/Sansa-Stark-855997256) is how I picture Sansa Stark when I write my fics.
> 
> [This](https://www.deviantart.com/uoelze/art/Fearless-598471699) was the inspiration behind Cat's sleek wolf helm. (It's not meant to be Sansa Stark or a wolf helm, according to the tags, but I'm pretending that it is ;) )
> 
> Other inspirations include: Titanic (movie and score), the theme to Assassin's Creed Revelations (idk, YouTube Music introduced me lol), and every terrible man I've ever read about or met to help me write Gareth _bloody_ Umber.
> 
> And a major thank you to my biggest source of motivation: **YOU.**
> 
> If you write fanfic, you know the value of a single comment. On my hard days, I'll reread the comments you all leave me, cry a lil, then get back to writing. I love being able to chat with you all each week. From the bottom of my heart, thank you! ♥
> 
> Here's to much, much more SanSan in 2021! Stay safe and have a very Happy New Year!
> 
> **Connect with me!**   
>  [Follow me on Tumblr](https://thequeen--in--thenorth.tumblr.com/)   
>  [Follow me on Twitter](https://twitter.com/nikki_desil)


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